So Close To Home
by WitchGirl
Summary: An ambush in the desert leaves Greg humiliated and isolated from his friends, even though they were less than half a mile away. Mature themes, please be advised.
1. Dust and Darkness

So Close To Home

**Summary:** An ambush in the desert leaves Greg humiliated and isolated from his friends, even though they were less than half a mile away. Mature themes, please be advised.

**_Random Author's Note_:** I hate Heineken. But for some reason, it struck me as the drink for Greg.

_**Real Author's Note:**_ After much deliberation I finally decided to start posting this. I'm a little ways ahead, but I am not writing as frequently or as fast as I used to. Still, I'll try and keep with my every-other-day rule. If I can't forgive me. But you know that by posting this now it's my personal vow to complete the story, so you will know how it ends.

_**Dedication: **_I would like to dedicate this story to kegel and fvhardy. Kegel for tolerating it when I post excerpts, and fvhardy for the inspiration.

* * *

Prologue: Dust and Darkness

Sara closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay as she bagged another torn piece of black cloth that had once been Greg's shirt. The stars blinked down at her in the clear night sky as she processed the scene where hours ago, Nick had discovered their pale, staggering friend. Brass stood silent vigil over the scene, his hand resting unconsciously on the butt of his gun as he held up his flashlight to help illuminate the scene. She crawled on her hands and knees, making sure she got every scrap of blood-stained fabric, and every piece of evidence. Her eyes strained in the dim light provided by the two flashlights, but she didn't care. She would search every grain of sand until she went blind.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital with the others?" Brass asked as he watched her diligently work but she simply shook her head.

"I need to be here," she replied, her eyes still scanning the dry earth. "I need to work the case. If I'm there, then I worry about him. I need to find out why he's in this state. I need to know what happened here."

Brass said no more and let her continue with her work. She looked at Greg's flashlight, which was still on as it lay forgotten in the dust. She photographed it before picking it up and turning it off. His kit had fallen a few feet away and looked relatively undisturbed. She found the knife that had been used to slit his throat. It was covered in dry blood. She wondered if all of it was Greg's.

And then she walked a little further and found his gun, the barrel of it bleeding crimson onto the dust. She frowned and crouched down near it, photographing it and then picking it up with two delicate fingers by the handle. "That's strange…" she whispered before bagging that as well. She recalled the gash in his throat, but his head had appeared otherwise unscathed. Nonetheless, the gun had definitely been a weapon of some kind, perhaps a club to bludgeon him in the ribs or stomach, she wasn't sure. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of the wound in his throat.

She surveyed the scene once, twice, and three times over, but she had collected any and all signs of the 'scuffle,' as Greg had called it. She sighed, wishing there was something more, wishing the answer had been written in the sand so she could read it and be satisfied. "Nothing left but dust and darkness…"

* * *

_Several Hours Earlier…_

The house, which the _For Sale_ sign described as "An oasis in the Nevada Desert," was dilapidated and creepy. It was a worn and rickety old thing, which looked as though it could crumble any minute. Its charm, if it had ever had any, had faded with the years as it endured the elements. It reminded Greg of a haunted house in old ghost stories, with sheets over the furniture and unoiled door hinges. And the fact that a crime scene was located at the foot of the stairs in the foyer didn't really help its image. He wondered how much its property value would suffer. The house was already in the middle of nowhere, he was surprised it had any property value to begin with.

He quickly volunteered to take the perimeter, not at all inclined to enter into that accident-waiting-to-happen. Catherine and Sara each gave him an understanding nod as they entered the house with their kits. Greg glanced around at the crime scene tape, estimating how wide the radius was. He saw Brass speaking with Grissom over by a few squad cars and Nick and Warrick dusting an open window at the front of the house for prints, smiling and laughing at some anecdote Nick was telling. Nick noticed Greg watching them and waved with a huge grin. Greg returned it with equal enthusiasm.

It wasn't a particularly good day, but it wasn't a bad day either. It was just a day, like any other, in which Greg would process the scene and do his job and then go home at the end of it, kick back and watch a little cable porn with nothing but a Heineken to keep him company. Or, at least, that was how Greg had planned the day to end.

He headed over towards the border of the perimeter and looked for disturbances in the sand or any debris the suspects may have left behind. The victim had been raped and decapitated, with no sign of the head, which had led the LVPD to postulate that the perp had stolen it as a trophy. So Greg looked for blood drops, too, anything that might come from carrying a decapitated head.

He found exactly what he was looking for when he saw a trail of dark drops in the soil. His flashlight followed it to the edge of the crime scene tape, where the trail went far beyond and into the night. He hesitated a moment and looked back over his shoulder. The perimeter had been secure, but he would be walking out into the darkness without a map. Still, it was just desert, and with nothing out there lurking but lizards and coyotes. So he shrugged, figuring it was best to just follow the evidence and ducked under the crime scene tape and kept going. He focused his flashlight and all his attention on the blood trail until the blood drops stopped and turned into tire tracks. Greg snapped a few photographs before switching gears and followed the tracks which seemed to turn left and head for the road.

He stopped walking and turned, looking back at the house which, though he could still see clearly enough, looked to be a little under half a mile away. The lights flashing around it made it a beacon in the dark, the blue and red sirens reminding Greg of those lights which helped to land airplanes. The bright white floodlights were focused on the house, and he could still make out the shapes, though not the faces, of Nick and Warrick by the windowsill. For a moment, he thought of heading back. He was straying a little too far from the perimeter, and they would wonder where he'd gone, and he would probably get a lecture from Grissom. Still, the wind was beginning to whip up something fierce, corrupting the tire tracks. He needed to document them as quickly as possible, even if they just led back to the road. No piece of evidence was insignificant. Grissom had taught him that.

He smiled, his decision made, and was about to return to following the tire tracks when someone grabbed him from behind and pressed on his trachea, making his eyes shoot open as he gagged. He struggled, his hands flying to his waist for his gun, but he was pushed forward. His attacker grabbed at his vest and tore it from Greg's shoulders before pushing him again and he fell onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. A hard combat boot came down on the small of his back forcing him to the ground completely. He let out a cry that was quickly stifled by dirt as his face was shoved into the ground. Someone was holding his hands above his head as they took his gun from his holster. Greg tried not to breathe in the dirt as he searched for air, turning his face to the side. The shoe to his back had knocked the wind out of him and made his head spin. He searched for his voice.

Whoever was on top of him had a knife because he felt the cold metal against the skin on his back as he cut open Greg's shirt and tore it off of him. Greg took in quaking breaths as he struggled madly to get his hands free, but this person was steadfast and strong. Too strong. He heard his shirt rip, and then the guy was tying his hands together above his head. He took the rest of the cloth and tied it around Greg's mouth, who was screaming now, though his voice was muffled by the dirt and cloth. His legs began to kick madly. He refused to let this happen to him again. Not since his attack in that alleyway had he felt so helpless, and so scared.

He saw that his flashlight had rolled a few feet away from him and lay useless, its beam illuminating a patch of dirt in the darkness and it occurred to Greg that while he could see the house as clear as day, for lack of light they could not see him half as clearly, if at all. His flashlight probably seemed like the flicker a star or a firefly to them from half a mile away. Still, his voice might reach them, could reach them, provided it was quiet enough over there, provided he was loud enough…

And then his attacker did something that made Greg's stomach lurch in revulsion and fear and suddenly he hoped that his friends would never find him, that he would die there and fade away into the obscurity of unwritten history, his body decomposing right there in the desert where he lay, and no one, least of all his colleagues, his friends, would come to investigate his death.

His attacker cut through his belt with the knife before getting rid of it and pulling Greg's pants down to his ankles, and his boxers down with them. Greg shuddered, closing his eyes tight as he grit his teeth, his whole body tensing as he hoped and prayed that the man's intentions were to steal his clothes and leave him alone. The desert was cold in the night air and the restless wind slithered across his back and arms, bringing chills and disturbed dust particles with it as it danced across his goosebump-laden skin. The only part of him that was remotely warm was being straddled by a man who seemed to be fully clothed himself. Nonetheless, his worst fears were realized as something cold and rigid ripped into him, sending spasms of pain out up his spine and he began to scream as loud as he could into the rag, more out of the pain than fear.

_Let him kill me and be done with it_, Greg's panicked brain begged. _Let them never know, let them never find me._

He had never been one for tears, being a strong believer of the philosophy that laughter was the best medicine, but in the few instances when he felt like absolute shit, he found that he could be infected by incapacitating sobs. His breaths shook as the tears trickled down his cheeks, which he angrily tried to fight out of principal. He wasn't this weak. His stomach continued to churn as he felt the blood trickle down his thighs. The vomit rose in his throat but he forced it down. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. He had imagined that being a CSI would leave him open to death threats, maybe severe beatings, and times when he'd have to make choices he didn't want to make, but he never thought that he would fall victim to…

He couldn't even think of the word. He wouldn't admit it, he wouldn't acknowledge it, he refused to believe that _anyone_ could hold that much power over him. He considered himself strong, a fighter. He had fought so much already, survived so much. And yet, he never thought it was possible to be able to experience this much pain, or this specific kind of pain. It was too nauseating, agonizing, and humiliating, and it would only be worse if his friends ever knew.

He choked back a cry of anguish as the guy gave one last thrust, reaching as deep as he could before slowly pulling out and Greg nearly laughed in relief. There was a clatter and Greg saw that a gun was thrown away near him. The barrel of it was covered in blood. He closed his eyes and quietly sobbed as the pain encompassed his body, wishing that his attacker would just go away, but knowing intrinsically that he wouldn't. But at least it would be over soon. He just hoped his friends didn't find him like this…

His attacker grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up. Greg closed his eyes tight, knowing exactly what was coming as the knife sliced into his neck. His attacker needed a trophy.

And then, to Greg's utter shock and apparently his attacker's as well, something loud broke the silence of the desert and he felt something moving in his pants by his ankles. The attacker let Greg's face fall to the ground and got off of him. Greg heard a door slam and an engine start and then he smelled the stench of exhaust and his attacker was gone.

He didn't move for a long time. His phone was still ringing. But he couldn't move. He just lied there like a useless log, his mind a foggy swamp of tainted thoughts. He tried to breathe and found the task difficult. His lungs would expand, and yet little air seemed to enter. He felt as if there was a hole in his neck, stealing his oxygen. And he was in so much pain… He couldn't feel his legs. He didn't _want_ to feel his legs. He didn't want to feel anything. The rawness of the vile attack crept up his spine. It hurt so much. Too much to move.

Eventually, his phone stopped ringing, and he was glad for it. He was aware of the flashlights in the distance but none of them had fallen on him yet. It's probably what had chased his attacker away more than the ringing phone. He should move. Cut himself loose, pull up his pants at least. Try and make himself look decent. Presentable. Try and make it seem as though nothing had happened, that everything was fine. He would need to walk. But he couldn't show any sign of pain when he did so, though he knew it would be more painful on his feet than it was on his stomach. He couldn't cry. He'd done that already, that was over with. It was time for damage control. To deal with the situation and figure out how he was going to explain this to his friends.

And yet, he didn't move. He didn't think. He didn't cry, either, though. He just lied there in a daze for what seemed like centuries as he waited for the sun to rise and chase away this nightmare.

And then, his phone began to ring again.

His head was spinning and so was his stomach. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't breathe right, and he had no idea what his voice sounded like, and it hurt too much to move even the smallest muscle in his upper body, but he had to answer that phone. Bringing his arms down, he awkwardly and agonizingly brought his feet up and reached into his pocket for his phone. He let out gasping cries as his torso bent and his face scrunched in pain, but he grit his teeth and tried not to make to much noise as the pain radiated throughout his body, his muscles crying out in protest. The flashlights were slowly getting closer and he was beginning to hear his name being called by indecipherable voices. People were coming. Turning onto his side so as not to aggravate his injuries by sitting or lying on his back, he pulled the gag around his mouth down around his neck with his wrists. He then fumbled with the phone momentarily and had no time to look at the caller ID as his bound hands clumsily hit the talk button and held it to his ear. He fought to control his breathless voice.

"Sanders." It sounded strained and shaky, so he coughed and found that for some reason it hurt his throat. He resolved never to cough again.

"Hey Greg, where'd you go?" came Nick's Texan accent. "Saw you over by the perimeter and then you pulled a Houdini on us. We were worried."

Greg swallowed, feeling his throat constricting as he choked back another sob, which only brought with it more pain. "Don't be," he said, his voice shaking. "I'm, uh… I'm fine."

Nick's concern was evident. "You don't sound fine. What happened?"

Greg saw the knife lying a few feet away. He felt dizzy, like he would pass out any minute. "Can I call you back in a minute, Nick?"

"Where are you, Greg?" Nick asked, sounding stern. "I thought I heard your phone ringing when I called you a minute ago. You can't be far."

"I'm about half a mile away, OK, I'll find you," Greg replied.

"Don't bother," Nick said. "I think I see you… are you lying down?"

Greg panicked and hung up the phone. He grabbed the knife and managed to cut the binds around his wrists before immediately pulling his pants and boxers up again, unable to suppress a cry of pain at the hurried unbending of his torso. The fact that he was without a shirt would need some explanation, but he found his vest and put it on shakily. Lastly, he untied the cloth that was tied around his neck now and tore it off. Looking at it, he saw there was blood on it. This confused him until he registered a dull ache in his neck. He hadn't realized it because his ass was hurting so much. He closed his eyes in shame and picked up the flashlight near him. His stomach was tying itself in knots and his brain was pounding on his skull.

"Greg? What the hell?"

He was startled by the call but through blurry eyes, he saw Nick jogging over towards him with a flashlight that was shining in his eyes. Greg held up his hands to shadow his eyes from the blinding light.

"Hello to you too," Greg panted, his head beginning to do back flips.

Nick began to laugh lightly as he held out a hand to Greg, who took it and Nick hoisted him up. The movement caused Greg great pain but he tried not to show it. "What happened to you?" Nick asked, his laughter quickly fading. "Where's your shirt? What happened to your neck?!"

Greg raked his hands through his hair and looked off in the direction that the van had driven. He was suddenly exceptionally faint now that he was standing and found it was difficult to stand still. His knees quaked with pain and threatened to buckle under his weight. He grabbed onto Nick's shoulder who grabbed onto his shoulder in turn. "Uh… yeah, I got in a little… scuffle with a suspect. No big deal, but…" He held up the tatters of his shirt. "He totally ruined my shirt."

"Looks like he ruined more than that…" Nick muttered, his flashlight directed at Greg's neck. "That looks bad, man, you should go to the hospital."

Greg shook his head, but as he did it made him feel even dizzier. "Nah, I'm fine," he said, trying to pass it off as a small cut, which it probably was despite the fact that Nick's face was growing blurrier by the minute.

"Greg!" Nick said, his voice echoing in Greg's head, and for some reason he was holding both of Greg's shoulders now, and very tightly. "You're swaying. You're bleeding like crazy. You're talking funny. You're not OK."

Greg didn't like Nick's hands tightly gripping his shoulders and he pulled out of his grip, uncomfortably. "Don't touch me…" He tried to speak, but his throat was constricting. He tasted liquid metallic in the back of his mouth and began to splutter. He suddenly had the notion that he was at the bottom of the ocean, drowning. He couldn't breathe, and Nick's face was far from him now. He wavered and the sky began to spin as he heard echoes in his head, felt the blood staining his pants and he fell forward into Nick before falling unconscious.


	2. Secrets and Shame

_**Author's Note:**_ Rawr, yes, Greg is my favorite victim, I'm afraid, but you guys seem to love it and for some reason I can't get enough of writing it. Dr. Evans' appearance was strongly influenced by the appearance of Lt. Riza Hawkeye from the Full Metal Alchemist verse. Not that any of you will have any idea who she is. Still, wanted to mention that. Her character is nothing like the lieutenant's. You don't have to know anything about it. I was just saying... Her maiden name is the last name of one of the coolest Sweeds I know.

* * *

Chapter Two: Secrets and Shame

The second Greg fell into his arms Nick knew he had lost a lot of blood. He looked over his shoulder at approaching people with flashlights. They were varying distances away, but they were listening for any sign of Greg. "Hey!" he shouted to them, trying to support Greg's weight. "HEY! Man down! Someone get the paramedics!"

At his voice, they seemed to move faster and after a few minutes, he saw Grissom and Sara come into view. Their eyes widened as they saw Nick struggling to keep Greg from falling to the ground. Grissom immediately went to Nick's aid and swung one of Greg's arms over his shoulder as Nick bore the other one. They dragged Greg over towards the road, which wasn't far from where they were, as they saw the ambulance sirens begin at the scene and take off down the stretch of road.

"What the hell happened?" Grissom asked in a gruff, brisk tone as the ambulance pulled up.

Nick could only shrug as paramedics brought out a gurney upon which Nick and Grissom laid Greg down. They watched the paramedics take over. "I don't know, Grissom, I mean… I called him, and he sounded… shaken. Winded. Something went down, he said he got in a fight with a suspect… Called it a scuffle, though by that neck wound it looked to be more than that."

"Grissom…" Sara said breathlessly, unable to take her eyes off of Greg and his blood-covered chest and vest. "Grissom, I don't like the look of that wound."

Grissom nodded and Nick swallowed. "Yeah," said Nick. "Neither did I. It's deep. I was surprised he was still talking, that it didn't hit his windpipe."

"It's not that deep…" Grissom muttered. "Deep enough to bleed, but not enough to be instantly fatal… It looks worse than it is." But he sounded doubtful on this last point.

"Grissom, his shirt was all torn up, and he wasn't wearing his belt," Nick said, glancing back at where they had found Greg. "What do you make of that?"

Grissom merely shrugged. "But our vic's head was cut off," he said quietly. "The wound in his throat might not have been meant to slash his jugular, it may have been the beginning of a decapitation."

They watched in silence as the paramedics loaded Greg into the ambulance. They heard footsteps and saw Warrick, Brass and Catherine arrive, looking horrified.

"Someone should go with him," Catherine said, making to do it herself, but Grissom held her back.

"The paramedics need space to do their work," he said. "And he's not conscious anyway. He won't know you're there."

"I want to know if he's OK…" Catherine said, her voice cracking. "Grissom…"

"We've done all we can," Grissom said. "We'll head to the hospital in our own cars."

The others nodded, and yet none of them moved as they watched the ambulance sail off into the dark horizon.

* * *

Sara raked her hands through her hair and let out a frustrated growl. She kicked the dust of the crime scene she had just processed and screamed at the night sky. "Why didn't we hear anything? I mean, he must have _screamed_ or something! We were only half a mile away for Christ's sake…" Her breathing became irregular as she bit her lip so hard it drew blood. She closed her eyes shut tight to stop herself from crying. 

A tender hand was rubbing her upper arm. "What happened… whatever it is… wasn't our fault," Brass told her. "Half a mile is farther than you think, as far as sound goes, and we were working the scene."

"Why was he out here?" Sara asked helplessly. "Following these… these _tire_ tracks? They just lead to the road _anyway_! Hey… Hey wait a minute…" She looked at the tire tracks and saw an interesting curved Y shape. "The car stopped. It pulled out of here… Greg should have seen it, should have noticed… But his eyes were probably on the ground." She snapped a few more photos before lowering her camera and shaking her head. "My God…" she said. "I just don't get it."

* * *

Red. All he saw was red. 

"… to tell the police, make sure he's comfortable, and that he stays on his side."

He groaned.

"Doctor, wait! I think he's waking up."

"Oh…"

He heard footsteps, but didn't open his eyes. "Mr. Sanders? Greg? Can you hear me?"

Her voice was quiet and sweet, low and soft like expensive velvet, with the hint of an accent he couldn't place.

"Mm…" he replied. It felt like his throat was on fire when he made a sound.

Someone's hand was on his forehead pushing back his hair. "His vitals are normal, but he feels a bit clammy. Can you open your eyes for me, Greg?"

It seemed like such effort to lift his eyelids, but he did, and as a reward his vision was flooded with florescent light and the image of her angelic face framed by two strands of blonde hair, the rest of which was pinned back behind her head. She was looking at him with wide blue eyes behind small, rectangular glasses and she slowly smiled.

"Good," she said. "My name is Dr. Evans. Do you know what happened to you?"

He began to shake his head then stopped and closed his eyes as the brutal memories returned. His stomach began to churn again, but he ignored it as he nodded.

Her smile grew, but it wasn't a happy one. "That's good news. You lost a lot of blood due to the incision on your neck, which hit your carotid artery, but luckily the cut was small enough and we got to you before you lost too much blood…" She saw Greg open his mouth to speak but hushed him. "You're throat is swollen, you won't be able to say much for a while. I'm sorry."

There was more sympathy to her tone than Greg would have liked to hear, and she seemed to notice. He wanted to ask her what she knew. He wanted to ask her why he had cut his carotid artery, when he had been sure that the cut hadn't been that deep.

"You seem concerned," Dr. Evans noted. "You're worried about your other injuries?"

So she did know. Greg's heart fell into his stomach. Of course she knew. She was a fucking doctor. He felt a tear roll down his cheek and looked away from her. She sighed and looked over to the nurse, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Lilah, would you leave Greg and me alone for a moment?"

She nodded in understanding and left the room. Dr. Evans turned back to Greg, her face somber. "You sustained severe tears and bruising to your rectum," she explained. "You were bleeding pretty badly from two different places when they brought you in. We had to give you a transfusion. AB negative. That's a nice blood type, a universal donor, you should give blood more often. But it's hard to find a match for. You're lucky we had some on hand." She tried to smile, but Greg knew it was hollow. She continued. "Uh… we were able to fix you up fine enough, but there will be scarring. I've prescribed you some medication to help with the pain, plus some iron supplements to strengthen your blood. You should take them once a day, after you wake up in the morning until the bottle is finished. If you find you need more pain killers, just come see me and I'll see. We're going to keep you here for a little while because I want to make sure you stay off your feet, until your injuries have healed a little more." She looked down at her clipboard. "I'm going to inform your colleagues of your situation."

She rose to leave and Greg reached out to her, his mouth open in a silent plea. She returned with a frown and gave him a pen and her clipboard. He scribbled three words down. _Don't tell them_.

She looked up at him confused. "But they've been waiting here for hours for word on how you're doing, I haven't even briefed them on your injuries…" She trailed off as she saw him writing. He showed her one word, with a bold period at the end.

_Good._

She sighed. "You don't want me to tell them about the rape," she deduced. He nodded. "Well, legally I'm bound to respect your wishes. It remains Desert Palm's policy to respect the patient's will to keep silent even if they are a victim of a crime such as this, but…" She sat down in the chair again and looked at him with sincerity etched in her blue eyes. "It's a controversial policy, and one I do not agree with. I urge you to at least report it to the police. What happened to you wasn't _right_, Greg. If you report it, if they find the person who did this to you, it will help you to find closure…"

_I know_, was the reply on the pad, followed by, _Still_._ Don't_.

She sighed and nodded. "Your medical records are confidential information which is only allowed to be divulged to family and in some cases emergency contacts. I'll tell them that you lost a lot of blood and that you're fine now. Are you up to speaking with them?" Greg merely shook his head. "Then you should get some rest. You've been through a terrible ordeal. I'll tell your friends that you'll be up to seeing them tomorrow."

Greg didn't give any response as he stared at the wall on the other side of the room. Dr. Evans sighed and rose to her feet before exiting.

* * *

Dr. Riza Stenbacka-Evans was a strong woman. Swedish by birth, her parents had been diplomats, so she grew up globally learning about other cultures. Particularly interesting to her was when she lived in South Africa from the ages of twelve to sixteen. She had volunteered at a clinic there for women infected with a disease no one at that time could recognize. But even before the disease was named, plenty of its victims were previous virgins who had been raped as a supposed 'cure' for the rapist. The experience had affected the young Riza enough to go into medicine. In a year, she was scheduled to go back to South Africa with a team from _Médecins Sans Frontières_ along with her American husband, who was just as passionate about helping out overseas as she was. She was skilled in dealing with traumatized women and patients with fatal diseases. She was fluent in French, Swedish and English, with enough Zulu and Afrikaans to get by. 

And yet, Greg Sanders was speaking to her in a language she had never heard before. Truth be told, she wasn't as used to dealing with traumatized male patients as she was with female patients. Rape, and calming down victims of rape, had always been her specialty, which is why Greg's ER doctor had paged her when he had discovered the extent of Greg's injuries. He was showing some typical signs of rape victims, but not others. The want for secrecy was understandable, as were the tears and the way his face flushed. And yet, he seemed withdrawn. Granted, he couldn't speak, but his eyes seemed very far away, as if he was only half-listening to her most of the time. He intrigued her, and she empathized with him and she wasn't sure why.

She walked into the waiting room and adjusted her glasses as she looked at her clipboard. "Gil Grissom?" she said, reading the name of the emergency contact on the sheet.

Four people rose to their feet, each of them looking anxious. Riza smiled at them reassuringly. "My name is Dr. Evans, I'm Greg's doctor. He's going to be fine," she assured them. "He lost a lot of blood, but we sutured the wound, luckily it barely nicked his carotid artery and the transfusion we gave him brought the color back to his cheeks. He'll be discharged in a few days, but I'm afraid he shouldn't be working for a few weeks or so. He should stay off his feet."

They didn't seem to question why a neck wound would require Greg to stay off his feet. All they cared about was that he was alright.

"When can we see him?" the blonde woman asked.

Riza nodded. "Right now, he's sleeping, but you can see him in a few hours when he's awake."

"Can't we just sit with him?" asked a tall man with a Texan accent. "I just wanna see him breathing."

Riza smiled, understandingly. "I'm afraid he's requested to be left alone for now," she said. "You should wait."

Three of them seemed relieved, if a little disappointed, and began packing up their things, but the older man kept his eyes on Riza. "Dr. Evans, may I speak with you a moment?" She nodded and they stepped outside the waiting room. "My name is Gil Grissom. As you may know, Greg is with the Crime Lab. My Crime Lab. We're trying to figure out exactly what happened to him. Did you happen to find any evidence on him at all? Any unusual injuries that we should know about like bruises or scars? If we could just match that to a weapon…"

"I understand what you're looking for, Mr. Grissom," Riza said. "I'm afraid we didn't find anything, although we weren't really looking. You can have his clothes to process for evidence if you like and later you can talk to him about the event. Other than that, I can't tell you anything else."

Grissom nodded, then seemed lost in thought for a moment. "How much blood did he lose?"

"About two and a half pints," she replied. "He was very lucky."

"Yes, he was…" Grissom muttered, his brow furrowing. He turned to Riza again. "Dr. Evans, I saw the wound on his neck and I know roughly the length of time it took to get him stable. Say, with a wound like that, he bled about… a pint every fifteen minutes. From the time he was likely injured to the time he was stabilized was about twenty-five minutes. He would have lost about a pint and a half, two pints at most."

"The wound must have been deeper than you thought," Riza replied. "I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Grissom."

"If you're worried about a lawsuit…" Grissom began.

"Oh, no," Riza said, resisting the urge to laugh. "Believe me when I tell you I am legally obligated to tell you everything I can. The little extra blood loss was not a result of a botched surgery, I can assure you."

"But there _was_ extra blood loss?" Grissom asked.

Riza sighed. "That's all I can tell you, Mr. Grissom."

"That's a non-answer," Grissom replied. Something seemed to occur to him. "And I need to call Sara."

"And that's a non sequitur," Riza pointed out.

Grissom smiled. "She's on Greg's case. She should have finished with the scene by now."

"Good," Riza said. "Talk to her. She'll be able to tell you more than I can. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to."

* * *

Sara slammed the bags of evidence on Hodges' desk, making him jump. He turned to her, looking annoyed, but her somber expression didn't waver. 

"Scrap whatever you're doing, this goes to the top," she said.

He looked down at the evidence bag, and his haughtily annoyed look disappeared. "Is that Sanders shirt?" he asked.

"News travels fast," Sara replied. "Wendy's MIA and I need this done now. Tell me whose blood is on what." She unloaded the knife and gun onto his desk as well.

"OK," Hodges said simply, and picked up one of the tattered fabrics.

Sara smiled as he went to work. "What, no comment about how this isn't your job?"

Hodges looked at her, confused. "It's about Greg, isn't it?" he said. "You need it done now. Wendy is slacking off as usual. I'll do it. No problem."

He pushed past Sara and walked across the hall with the evidence. Sara followed him and matched his pace as he headed into Wendy's empty lab. He put down the evidence on the table and seemed to choose carefully before picking up the knife.

"Thanks," she said.

Hodges just nodded in acknowledgment and began the tests.

* * *

The lights were out in his room but Greg couldn't sleep. He had to lie on his side, his injuries preventing him from lying on his back. He still felt sore and… strangely broken. He loathed that feeling. He knew it hadn't been his fault. He knew he couldn't have done anything more than what he did. And yet, he still couldn't bring himself to tell his friends. He couldn't face the looks of horrified disgust that would cross their faces. He didn't want them to see him as a victim, at least not a victim of _that_ sort of crime. He was doubtless that the same person who had attacked him had also killed the girl in the old house. So he didn't discriminate on gender. That was interesting. Potential serial killer. That wasn't good. 

He closed his eyes and pulled the sheets tighter around him. He wanted to bring his knees up, but it hurt. So he tried to think of old jokes to pass the time, and maybe he would fall asleep. But it still didn't chase away that feeling that he wasn't part of this world anymore. He had never felt more alone in his life.

The door opened and, thinking it was his friends, he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Whoever it was seemed to fiddle with something by his bed. They began to leave but Greg heard them stop and look at him. He didn't like listening to them breathing. He shuddered involuntarily.

"Sweet dreams," whispered a soft voice with the hint of an accent, and then Dr. Evans left swiftly.

Greg relaxed, and as he did, he cried. 


	3. Discoveries

_**Author's Note:**_ Mm, yes, being mean to Greg is the most fun a gal can have writing CSI fan fiction. Though the story I almost posted was a comedy. Go figure. Er, one of you asked about pairings. There are none outside of the canon GSR (and by canon GSR I mean the subtle hints you might get in the show, so no, that relationship won't be developing in this story). Otherwise, this story is completely friendship oriented.

* * *

Chapter Three: Discoveries 

There was a light knock at the door and Greg opened his eyes and blinked a few times before yawning widely. The sun was shining outside his window. This made him smile. In the light of day, he could convince himself that his problems were far away. And if no one but him knew, he would eventually be able to convince himself that nothing had happened at all.

"Greg?" The soft accent curled around his name like a warm cat at the foot of his bed. He looked up to see Dr. Evans by the door, holding her clipboard to her chest as her red lips curled into a smile. "Your friends are anxious to see you."

Greg smiled weakly. "Yeah, sure, send 'em in," he told her.

She stepped aside and in filed Nick, Catherine, Warrick, Brass and Grissom, each one bearing a grin so large it strengthened Greg's smile.

"Hey," he said. His throat was dry, and slightly constricted, but at least he could speak again. "What have you guys been up to?"

"Worrying about you, mostly," Nick replied. "How you holdin' up?"

"Where's Sara?" Greg asked, avoiding the question because he wasn't sure how to answer it.

"Working overtime," Grissom replied. "She processed your scene. Says she won't leave the lab until she has some sort of lead."

"Which reminds me," Brass said. "You wanna tell us what went down over there?"

_I did_, Greg thought bitterly. "Uh, yeah…" he said, and his friends gathered around his bedside to hear the story. His eyes darted over to Dr. Evans, who was waiting by the door and hugging her clipboard like a security blanket. She was watching him with those sharp blue eyes and Greg knew she would see right through his lie before his friends did. "What did Sara… find at the scene exactly?" he asked slowly, so as to formulate his story to best fit her evidence.

"Your shirt," Nick replied. "And your belt. Both in tatters. Plus the knife to cut your throat. Your kit and a, uh… flashlight I think?" He looked at Grissom and Warrick for help, who both nodded.

"And your gun," Brass added in a gruff voice. "Covered in blood."

Greg blanched. But luckily enough for him, Dr. Evans gasped, drawing their attention. She blushed slightly and excused herself. "I'm sorry, you probably want to be alone…"

"No," Greg said suddenly, for some reason finding the doctor's presence soothing. "No, stay," he said. "Please."

She gave him a curious look before nodding. Greg took a deep breath and began. "So I was… checking the perimeter when I saw blood drops, which I figured came from transporting the severed head. Anyway, I followed them thinking it wouldn't go far, and then blood drops turned into tire tracks. I turned around a moment to see how far from the house I'd gone when he just grabbed me and forced me to the ground. He cut the shirt off my back and tore it up, using it to bind and gag me and then he pulled my head back and was about to slash my throat when Nick called me and he just bolted." He knew he had conveniently left some minor details out of the story, but otherwise it had been the truth.

"But what about your belt?" Warrick asked slowly.

"I guess he cut that too," Greg replied.

"We didn't find you bound…" Nick said slowly.

"Well I got out of it, didn't I?" Greg snapped, irately. "What's wrong, you sound like you don't believe me."

"We do," Nick assured him. "We do, but…"

"Some things are out of place," Grissom said slowly. "Like your gun. What happened to your gun?"

Greg's eyes darted over to Dr. Evans, who was eying him curiously. "I… I… I don't know, do I?" he burst out. "I had a knife to my fucking throat, alright? I was kind of preoccupied with that!"

"Calm down, Greg, we know it wasn't easy," Brass said.

That was probably the second biggest understatement Greg had heard in his entire lifetime, beat out only by his ninth grade lab partner who in astronomy one day had called the universe 'kinda big.' He sighed, knowing he seemed to them to be acting unreasonable. "OK, um… My best guess is when he cut me, I bled on it or something…"

"But—"

"OK." Grissom's calm, accepting word interrupted Brass's next question. He looked at the others. "I'm going to get some coffee. Does anyone want any?"

The others looked rather stunned. "Gil…?" Catherine said slowly.

He smiled at her enigmatically and rose to his feet. "Decaff for you?"

"I'm good," she replied.

"Anyone else?" Grissom offered, but they shook their heads. Grissom nodded politely at Greg. "I'll see you again soon, Greg."

"Yeah," Greg said with a weak smile. "Good to see you." He had the feeling Grissom wouldn't come back today, with or without coffee. Grissom headed to the door and nodded politely at Dr. Evans. He then leaned in close and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, her face expressionless and left the room with Grissom, leaving Greg and his friends to ponder his peculiar behavior.

* * *

"Thank you," Grissom said to Riza out in the hall, "for speaking with me." 

"If you have any concerns that I can address, then I'm glad to help," Riza replied with a sweet smile.

"I do, actually," Grissom said. "Have concerns, I mean. I have a lot of concerns."

Riza laughed lightly. "I know he looks a little pale right now, but I can assure you—"

"It's not about his pallor, it's about his position," Grissom replied. Riza didn't understand and it was evident in her expression. Grissom explained. "Why is he lying on his side?"

"Perhaps it's more comfortable for him," Riza answered, as though she had expected this question to be asked.

Grissom didn't like prepared answers. "With a neck wound like that, it seems like lying on his side might agitate it," he replied.

"I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Grissom," Riza said with a helpless shrug.

"Tell me the truth," Grissom said sternly. "I'm a Crime Scene Investigator, Dr. Evans. I depend on the evidence to tell me the story because people tend to lie." He glanced back through the window at Greg, who was smiling and laughing with his friends. "Even good people. Like Greg." He turned back to Riza. "And I'm sure he has good reason, and you're bound to keep his medical records confidential if he asks you to, I understand that. But he has other injuries that you're not telling me about, and it has to do with an ongoing investigation in the rape and murder of a young woman."

Riza was baffled. "What? What does Greg have to do with that?"

"The woman was decapitated," Grissom explained. "And not very cleanly. The wound on Greg's neck tells me it wasn't meant to slit his throat, it was meant to cut all the way through his neck, which is why the edges of it are sloppier and ill-defined. Someone was hacking at his neck, not slicing it. We found a gun at the scene covered in blood and Greg cannot account for how that happened. His belt was torn to shreds. According to Nick, Greg hung up on him when Nick said he could see where Greg was. If you've just been attacked and need medical assistance, why would you do that?"

Riza avoided his eyes as it suddenly became painful to look at him. She hugged her clipboard tighter to her chest. "I have other patients I should be seeing to, so if you don't have any questions about his health…"

"You know as well as I do what the evidence tells me," Grissom said in a low voice. "I just need you to confirm what I already know."

She looked up at him, her face solemn. "I can't do that, Mr. Grissom."

He sighed. "I know it's hospital policy to protect rape victims if they don't want to report the crime. But Dr. Evans, if my theory is correct, than we may be dealing with a serial killer, and whatever evidence Greg is keeping from us could help us catch him faster. If I have to get a warrant, I will. If I have to ask Greg myself, I will."

"Then ask Greg yourself," Riza replied. "Because I've told you all I can."

"You haven't denied my postulations," Grissom noted.

"I have not," she replied.

Grissom heaved a long, tired sigh, as though he had been clinging to some desperate hope that he was wrong. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with one hand before shaking his head and looking back into Greg's room. He looked older than he probably was at that moment, his tired eyes lingering on the frail boy in the next room. Riza had seen that look before, in the eyes of fathers who learned the truth about what happened to their daughters. It was strange seeing it on Gil Grissom's face, a man who shared no blood with the victim, and yet seemed invested in the youth's general wellbeing, or at least more so than a boss generally was invested his employee's health. She felt as though she should say something. She was, after all, famous among her colleagues at being empathic towards her patients and their worried relatives. And yet, for the first time in fifteen years of being a resident at Desert Palms, she had absolutely no idea what to say to this man other than the obvious.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Grissom," Riza said quietly.

The only sign he gave that he had even heard her was a slight nod as his eyes remained on Greg. He seemed to decide something. "No one hurts my guys," he whispered, before turning around and heading down the hall.

* * *

Sara was pouring her fifth cup of coffee in the break room. She was so jittery that when her cell phone went off, she jumped and nearly spilled the whole pot. She took it out and saw a new text message. Hodges had her results. Her heart began beating more rapidly in her chest. In his discreet, Hodges way, he had included a little sad face after the note. 

She made her way quickly out of the break room forgetting her newly brewed coffee and almost ran headlong into Henry but succeeded in dodging him. She spun around the corner of the DNA lab with so much momentum she had to grab onto the doorframe to keep from toppling over. She then realized Hodges wasn't there. Panicking, she turned around and headed for the trace lab, her heart pounding in her ears. Her eyes were eager as she saw Hodges sitting in a swivel chair looking at some papers.

"Well?" she gasped desperately. "What did you find?"

"Two donors on the knife," Hodges said, not turning to face her as he looked at the papers. "One was Greg's, and the other your victim at that house."

Sara nodded. "I figured as much. Tell me something else. What about the gun?"

"The shirt," Hodges continued as if Sara hadn't spoken, "was cut only once. You can see how neat the break is between the fibers. But then it was torn, twice. They both had Greg's epithelials, my guess is from him wearing it, but one of them was a mix of blood and saliva."

"Saliva?" Sara frowned. "It was in his mouth?"

Hodges nodded. He still wouldn't look at her. It was eerie, seeing him act so calm and businesslike. Not a snide remark to be heard. Sara didn't like it. "One had a knot in it, though it had been cut through. The one with the blood and saliva looked as though it had been tied at one time too. My guess is, they were binds."

Sara nodded. "OK, so he was bound," she said quietly. "You still haven't told me about the gun."

"His belt," Hodges said, "was cut in several places, probably by the knife. No trace of anything on it except dirt."

"Hodges," Sara said, taking the back of his chair and spinning him around so he was facing her. "What is it you're not telling me?"

He looked up at her with wide, guilty eyes like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. He took a breath then hesitated before handing the papers to Sara. "Your gun," he said slowly. "There wasn't just blood on it."

Sara frowned at the results on the paper, obviously confused. "Tissue and… fecal matter? Hodges, this doesn't make any…" But then, all of a sudden, it did make sense. It made too much sense. The paper fluttered from her fingers to the floor, and neither she nor Hodges bent to pick it up. "My God…"

"My thoughts exactly," Hodges replied.

Her fingers flew to her lips to contain a gasp and without saying even a goodbye, she spun on her heal and walked swiftly out the door and down the hall, this time actually knocking into poor Henry but not even stopping to apologize. She covered her mouth with her hand before pushing open the door to the entrance to the parking lot where she saw a nearby bush and couldn't hold her revulsion in any longer as she threw up.

After a couple dry heaves and some coughing, she was left with that bitter taste of old pizza and orange juice in her mouth, but nothing was as bitter as the thoughts that lingered in her mind. She closed her eyes and rested her hands on her knees as she caught her breath, images flooding her mind of what Greg must have suffered through. It was almost enough to make her sick all over again.

As she took deep breaths to calm her rapidly beating heart and recover from her last bout of nausea, her phone began to ring. She closed her eyes and swallowed, wishing she had some gum. She tried not to think of what that must have been like for Greg and instead focused her energy on what she was going to do to the guy that had done it to him. With a deep breath, knowing the news she would have to relay, she answered the phone.

"Sidle," she sighed.

"Sara, it's worse than we realized," came Grissom's voice.

Her heart stopped. "Oh my God, what happened? Is he OK? Did the transfusion not take?"

"What?" He sounded confused. How typical of Grissom to be difficult in a time like this. She growled in frustration and he seemed to realize what she was talking about. "Greg? Oh, no, I'm sorry, he's… he's healthy."

Sara noticed he had avoided using the word 'fine.' "Well then what were you talking about if not Greg?"

"I _was_ talking about Greg," Grissom replied. "Just not how he's doing. It's what happened to him. It's… It's not what we thought."

"I know," Sara whispered. "I just got the lab results on the blood on Greg's gun."

"And…?" Grissom prompted.

"And…" She felt the tears sting her eyes and blinked them away. "And Grissom…"

"I know," he said quietly. "I talked to the doctors."

"Oh God…" Sara said, half talking half sobbing. "Grissom… Grissom, I don't know what to do."

He sighed, sounding oddly defeated himself. "Neither do I," he told her, confirming her suspicions. Sara didn't like it when Grissom was out of ideas. Grissom was never out of ideas. He always had a plan. He always had a next step. He always knew the perfect way to tackle any situation. He was always cool and calm and the only one of them to keep the most level head in a crisis. If Grissom was lost, than so was the flock he shepherded.

"Don't say that," Sara whispered. "Please, Grissom, don't say that."

"I think I'm going to talk to him," Grissom said slowly. "But he's been lying to us, Sara. He doesn't want us to know. And…" He paused for a long time. "And I don't want to be the one to tell him that we already do."

Sara smiled to reassure him, though she knew deep down that it was more to reassure herself as he couldn't see her. "Grissom, I can't think of a better person to tell him."

"You're only saying that because you don't want to do it either."

In spite of everything, she tossed back her head and let out a loud, barking laugh. It felt good.

"OK," Grissom said, sounding more sure of himself now. "You know. I know. I don't want anyone else on this case, understand? Keep Nick, Catherine and Warrick far away from it. Greg obviously doesn't want this advertised across the lab. Do all the lab work yourself."

"Hodges knows," Sara told him. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Good, he can help you with the lab work then," Grissom said simply. "Give your evidence directly to him and tell him he processes _all_ of it."

"He'll like that," Sara said with a small smile. "It'll make him feel important."

"So we can help Greg and stroke Hodges' ego while we're at it, fantastic," Grissom said with just the hint of sarcasm.

But Sara was grinning. "I like that you're giving me a plan. I like having a plan."

"Having a plan is good," Grissom agreed. "Especially when everything else is so chaotic." 


	4. Confidential

_**Author's Note:**_ Wrote a pretty twist yesterday. I'm happy. I may even start updating daily again. We'll see. Enjoy. By the way, you guys, you reviewers make my day, really. I love it when you talk about specifics, you rock. Feel free to critique as well, I know flaws exist. Those of you who read and don't review, for shame!

* * *

Chapter Four: Confidential

Grissom was smiling as he hung up the phone. Though their topic was grim, speaking with Sara had cheered him up immensely. She was one less person he needed to break the news to. Now there was just Greg.

"Grissom!" Nick called as he saw his supervisor at the end of the hall. Grissom turned as he put his phone away and managed a smile at Nick. Concern was etched into his features, and while this was not unusual considering the situation, Grissom wondered if Nick had put the pieces together as he had done.

"Yes?" he said in response to Nick's query.

"I just wanted to ask you…" Nick said slowly, "what was up with you in Greg's room? You know he's lying, right?"

Grissom tensed. "What do you think he's lying about?" he asked, choosing his words carefully.

But to his relief, Nick shrugged. "Pieces in his story don't fit. He said it's because it all happened real fast, but something else is up and I just can't place it."

"Did you voice this concern to the others?" Grissom asked.

"I didn't have to," Nick replied. "You can see it in their eyes that they're suspicious, all three of them. But no one pressed the matter because the doctor came in and said he needed rest and kicked us all out."

"Don't," Grissom told him.

"Beg pardon?" Nick said.

"Press the matter," Grissom clarified. "Go home, Nick. Get some sleep yourself and later tonight I'll assign you to a new case."

"_What_?!" Nick exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Grissom, but there's no way in hell you're pulling me from this case. That bastard slit Greg's throat! I found him, remember? I was the first one on the scene. I'm working this case just like the rest of you."

"There is no 'rest of us,'" Grissom said. "There's only Sara and me. You, Catherine and Warrick will have other cases tonight."

"But—"

"Don't _argue_ with me, Nick," Grissom said as he rubbed his temples. He began to feel a headache coming on. "Just go home."

Furious, Nick pushed past Grissom and stormed off down the hall.

Grissom sighed. He understood Nick's frustrations. He would feel the same way in Nick's position. But right now, Grissom was more preoccupied with thinking of what Greg would want, and he was fairly sure that Greg would want as few people working on this case as possible, if any at all considering he didn't want to report it.

Which left him to the task at hand. Confronting Greg. Walking down that hospital hall was like the long march down the mile to the electric chair.

When he finally got to Greg's room, he saw Catherine and Warrick sitting in chairs outside talking to each other in hushed tones. Upon Grissom's arrival they both stood. "We got kicked out," Catherine said.

"I've heard," Grissom returned. "I have a feeling you won't be allowed in any time soon. Where's Brass?"

"He went looking for you," Warrick answered. "He wanted to ask you something."

Grissom looked in the room and saw Dr. Evans sitting by Greg's bed and speaking with him. He pursed his lips and felt a sudden chill. "Why don't you two go home and get some rest?" Grissom asked.

"I can rest here," Catherine said quickly, almost defensively.

"I'm sure your bed would be a far more comfortable place," Grissom pointed out. "And I'll bet Lindsey misses you."

"What's up with you, Griss?" Warrick asked. "Did you talk to Sara? Does she have any new evidence?"

"I can't discuss the case with you," Grissom said quietly.

Catherine knew where this was going and her eyes narrowed. "Why not?" she asked, her voice low and accusatory.

"Because you two are no longer on this case," he replied simply.

Catherine reacted much as he expected her to. "Ha, that's funny, Grissom. Now be serious a moment."

"I am being serious," he told her. "You two are both off this case from here on out."

"But this was my scene to begin with!" Catherine exclaimed. "Mine and Nick's together, before we realized the area of our crime scene and had to call in the whole team! Greg wouldn't even have _been_ there if we hadn't—"

"It's not your fault this happened to Greg, Catherine," Grissom said calmly. He looked at Warrick, who was silent but apparently seething. "I know you're both less than happy about this, but—"

"Why are you taking us off?" Warrick burst out. "We've done everything right."

"It's not a complicated case," Grissom told them. "I need your efforts focused elsewhere. Just because Greg gets injured, it doesn't mean crime stops in Las Vegas."

"So who's on the case then, you and Nick?" Catherine snapped, irritated.

"Actually, Nick is off it too," Grissom replied.

"He won't like that," Warrick muttered.

Catherine was nodding. "So it's you and Sara. How typical."

"_Sara_ actually processed the crime scene," Grissom said. "She knows the evidence."

"Are you saying she's a better investigator because she didn't jump in her car and drive to the hospital like any normal person with feelings—"

"Catherine, hold your tongue," Grissom said sharply. "We're _all_ worried about Greg."

She sighed and cupped her hands over her mouth. She pouted and looked away from him and begrudgingly said, "I know, Grissom, I'm sorry."

Grissom looked into the room again. "It's OK," he said, absently. And without another word, he slowly opened the door and stepped into the room. Both Dr. Evans and Greg looked up. He nodded at both of them.

"Mr. Grissom, I'm having a conversation with Greg about his medical histories," Dr. Evans said. "If you wouldn't mind waiting outside…"

"You know, Grissom's a doctor too," Greg said with a smile.

"Really?" said Dr. Evans, seeming to humor Greg. "In what field?"

"Biology," Grissom said. "Would you mind if I speak to Greg for a moment?"

She exchanged looks with Greg. "Our conversation can wait," she said before rising to her feet. As she passed Grissom, she paused by his shoulder, and whispered, "Good luck," before leaving the room.

With a tired sigh, Grissom took the chair she recently vacated and looked at Greg impassively for a long time.

Greg laughed, awkwardly. "Well, come on, Griss, you're the one who wanted to talk here, not me."

"I know," Grissom said. "I just wanted you to know that no one will be asking you anymore questions about what happened to you that night. At least, not the specifics. We may try and have you give us a description."

"I didn't see the guy," Greg said, shaking his head as he shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, it was dark."

"Did he speak to you?" Grissom asked.

"Not a word," Greg replied.

Grissom nodded and looked down. "Greg—" he began, with the hint that he would continue, but he just pursed his lips and sighed. "There are some things we cannot hide, no matter how much we would like to. And while we may take our secrets to the grave, there's always something left behind that betrays us." He looked up at Greg to read his expression, but Greg looked more curious than nervous at Grissom's words. He maintained eye contact. As much as he wanted to look away, it was important to him that he didn't. Greg had to know he was sincere in his next words, and he wanted to instill courage in Greg. Even if Grissom was a little afraid himself. "I know what happened to you out in that desert, Greg. And… I wish there were better words than 'I'm sorry' to express how much I regret that."

He smiled slowly, then forced a laugh. "You, uh… You mean the fact that my throat was cut? Yeah, that does kinda suck."

But Grissom shook his head. "You and I both know it's more than that, Greg," he said. "The evidence never lies. Remember?"

Greg's smile slowly faded. "I think you should go…" he said.

"If that's what you want," Grissom replied, rising to his feet. "I just wanted to tell you… The others don't know. As soon as I figured it out, I pulled them off of your case. They don't have to know, if you don't want them to. The evidence is confidential. Sara and I are processing everything personally."

"Sara…?" Greg sounded heartbroken. "Sara knows?"

Grissom sighed as he took his seat again and nodded. "Yes, she processed the evidence at the scene. She, uh… she found your gun…"

Greg winced and looked away. "I don't want to talk about it. Please. I don't… want to report it, I don't want to go into it, and I _definitely_ don't want _anyone_ investigating it, OK? So if you could just… not…"

Grissom really wished he could do what Greg was asking him. "I know it's hard for you, Greg," he said quietly. "But as you know, our vic in the house was raped and decapitated. And… if he tried to do the same to you… then we have a serial killer on our hands. Who _doesn't_ discriminate based on gender. That's a _big deal_, Greg. Evidence from _your_ crime scene could help us catch this guy, before he hurts someone else."

Grissom saw the tears rolling down Greg's cheeks as they flushed red. "No one else has to know?" he whispered.

"Of course not," Grissom said.

Slowly, Greg nodded. "OK," he said. "Fine. Look into it. But promise me it's just you and Sara. No one else."

Grissom hesitated as he remembered what Sara had told him. "Greg… Nick, Catherine, Warrick, Brass… None of them know. But Sara needed Hodges to process the evidence for her. She didn't know, at the time, what he'd find…"

"OK," Greg said. "Whatever, just… no one else."

Grissom nodded. "You have my word," he said. "If you have anything you remember, anything you want to tell me… you can, you know."

Greg nodded. "I know," he said.

Grissom rose to his feet and headed to the door before he paused and looked back at Greg. "I truly am sorry, Greg," he said. "I promise you, we'll get him."

Greg didn't say anything, he just looked away. Sighing, Grissom left.

* * *

Contrary to Grissom's suggestion, Nick didn't go home after the hospital. He went directly to the lab. He searched the whole place until he found Sara, running a fingerprint through AFIS. 

"You know, we have lab techs who do that," Nick said, making Sara jump. She looked up at him, and seemed to relax slightly, though she was still tense.

"Hello, Nick," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Nick returned icily. "Wanna tell me why Grissom's giving you special treatment?"

She looked confused. "Giving me special… what?"

"Didn't you hear?" Nick asked. "I'm off Greg's case. We're _all_ off Greg's case. All except for you. Wanna tell me what's going on here, Sara?"

"It's not me," Sara told him honestly. "I can tell you that."

"Then it's Grissom," Nick said. "What the hell is he thinking?"

"He's thinking about Greg," Sara replied. "And Las Vegas. There are other cases, you know, other scenes to process. He needs you guys on those."

Nick pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. "OK," he said. "If he just needs people working on other cases, then switch with me."

"What?" Sara said, looking surprised.

"Switch with me," Nick repeated. "I want this case, Sara. I want to find out who hurt Greg."

"I… I can't do that," Sara said, turning back to her screen.

Nick put a hand on her shoulder. "Sara… please. This means a lot to me."

"I understand, Nick," Sara said sincerely. "I really, really do. But trust me when I tell you that the best way you can help Greg is to just stay out of it."

Nick glanced down at the file by Sara's mouse. "OK," he said slowly, looking up at her again.

She smiled at him. "I really appreciate this, Nick, thanks for not prying."

"Hey, I think you've got a match," Nick said, pointing at her screen. She looked, and when she did so, he grabbed the file and jumped out of his seat.

"Hey!" she screamed. "Give that back! That's classified!" She jumped to her feet as well, but Nick deftly avoided her as his eyes scanned the file.

"I don't see anything unusual about this case," Nick said, almost playfully as Sara chased him over to a table and soon they were on either side of it. When she went one way, he went the other. He kept her trapped there for a moment, not sure of which way to go to best catch him, and he took that time to read the information more clearly.

"Nick, I'm serious, give that _back_!" Sara hissed, slamming her hands down on the table. "This isn't funny!"

He closed the file and glared at her from across the table. "What's in here, Sara, that's so fucking confidential? What is it that I'm not allowed to see?!"

"Nothing!" she exclaimed.

"Well then you won't mind if I just take a look?" Nick said, opening the file again.

"OK!" Sara screamed. "Yes, there _is_ something, OK?"

"I'm not going to let Grissom censor this case," Nick snapped. "If there's some secret he's keeping from the rest of us—"

"It's not _Grissom_ who doesn't want you to know, it's _Greg_!" Sara blurted out desperately. She was breathing hard as she watched Nick carefully, who was looking right back at her, his hands on the file. He looked down at the file, then up at Sara again.

Finally and reluctantly, he rolled his eyes and slid the file across the table.

"OK," he said. "Fine."

Sara smiled as she took the file. "You're a good friend, Nick," she told him honestly.

He rolled his eyes again. "Whatever…" he mumbled. "I'm going home." He headed for the exit and paused in the doorway, his back to Sara. He heard her sit down again and begin to type on the computer. "Sara?"

"Hm?" she replied absently, still typing.

Nick was confused. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to upset Greg. "It's not good… when something's got Greg so worked up he doesn't even want me to know about it." He glanced at her over his shoulder when he heard her stop typing. She was sitting at the desk staring at the screen, listening to him but unmoving. "You know, he tells me things he doesn't tell you sometimes."

"I know," she whispered, her eyes still on the screen.

"So…" Nick said slowly. "So just tell me one thing. Exactly how bad _is_ it?"

She sighed and bowed her head, closing her eyes. "Nick, I…"

"Right," Nick said, nodding. "That bad, huh?"

She put her hands over her face and took a deep breath before sighing again. "God, I hope not."

Nick nodded before turning around and leaving her alone.


	5. Suspect

_**Author's Note:**_ OK, so I'm uploading daily again (yay!). Sorry for the short chapter, but hey, it's sooner than expected. Mind you, I have a secret review quota I expect to reach to determine if I should post again tomorrow. This isn't a plug for reviews (well, not entirely), but it's a way for me to determine if I should continue to update daily or not, as I'm not sure if it's a wise choice for me writing-wise. I don't want to get too ahead of myself and end up leaving you hanging for days/weeks, like with Silent Night. Also, it's a way to encourage all of you who are subscribed to this story that don't review to do so.

I love all my reviewers, but what I love most is my loyal reviewers, and I have to give them credit. key-to-life, kegel, WuHaoNi, kateg123, ncis-lady, Kristafied, necira, Immokk, PisceanPal23, fvhardy... If I missed you, I deeply apologize, but these folks have read (and reviewed!) at least one other story by me, and have thus entered my "loyal readers/reviewers" category, and they always have something insightful to say and I love them! If you're a loyal reader, but never review, I'll never know! So follow their example and drop one. This isn't just for me, but I know CSI readers are particularly bad at reviewing, and that's not cool for the authors. Also, nearly all the reviewers I mentioned are also authors, so go check out their stuff too. :o)

* * *

Chapter Five: Suspect 

Sara chewed on her lip as she looked at the suspect behind the glass. He wasn't a very tall man, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked exceptionally nervous as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He kept fiddling with his hands and his eyes kept darting everywhere. Brass stepped in and stood beside her.

"I'm confused," he said. "Grissom tells me that you're leading this interview?"

She nodded.

"I'm not an idiot," Brass said suddenly, making her look up at him. He was wearing his stern, trademarked Jim-Brass frown as he eyed her pensively.

"I never assumed you were," she replied lightly. She guessed that he was disgruntled about the situation as a whole, taking it as an insult that Sara was in charge of this over him.

He grumbled and folded his arms. "I won't say anything," he said.

"About what?" she returned. He thought she was kidding, but she was genuinely curious. Was he upset like Nick was that Grissom wasn't telling him the whole story? That he was actually having to supervise Sara in what he argued was a 'rotation in the field' while she went around interrogating suspects and doing detective work instead of him? In his place, Sara would have been angry. CSIs didn't do field rotations as detectives. They lacked the training for it, and Grissom and Brass both knew that, which is why she couldn't do it unsupervised. But it did mean that her notes were as confidential as the rest of the case, even to Brass's eyes.

"We find a female victim with her head cut off—no head ever found, by the way—who has been stripped, bound, and sexually assaulted. Perimortem," Brass explained monotonously, simply listing off facts. "We find Greg, half a mile away from the crime scene, disoriented, with his throat cut." He looked at Sara. "The others can't see it because they don't want to. But I didn't become captain for no reason, Sara. And it's not like it's one hell of a stretch."

"How long have you known?" Sara asked in a whisper.

"Probably about as long as Grissom has," Brass replied. "I didn't ask the doctor for confirmation like he did, but by the way he was acting, I figured I was right."

"You want the case back," she guessed.

"Actually, no," Brass said, folding his arms as his eyes shifted to the suspect. "I'm curious to see how you do. And besides… Greg obviously doesn't want people to know. He doesn't have to know that I figured it out. I'm pretty good at playing dumb." He smiled at Sara and smirked out of the corner of his eye. "You should know that by now."

A small blush crept into her features and she looked away. Indeed, Jim Brass had proven to her that he could be trusted with the most guarded of secrets. "Thank you, Jim," she said quietly with an appreciative smile.

"You're welcome, Sara," he replied. "So. You want to tell me who this guy is?"

She took a deep breath and opened the file, reading the name and facts provided about the man in the next room. "Harold Schwartz. We found him wandering around aimlessly outside of his apartment, unsure of what he was doing. He seemed a little out of it. Anyway, he was the boyfriend of the decedent. According to her computer records, they were IMing for a long time before they actually met the night she died. Online dating site."

Brass nodded. "So we think this guy knew her?" Brass asked. "I thought he was a serial."

Sara grinned. "The house she was in. It's his property."

"Like you couldn't have told me that first," Brass said, rolling his eyes.

The two of them entered the room and his darting eyes were instantly on them. "What is it?" he asked. "What am I doing here?"

"You're here to help us figure out what your girlfriend was like, Mr. Schwartz," Sara said confidently. "When is the last time you saw her?"

"I-I don't know…" Harold stuttered, twiddling his thumbs. "I was… I mean, she was… She came over on Friday, and we had dinner… there was wine… she was really sweet… Oh God, how could this happen to her?"

He was a mess. Jittery and shaking, his hands raked through his hair, the sweat drenching his face.

Sara glanced at Brass. "Mr. Schwartz, are you OK?" she asked.

"_No_," he snapped. "_No_, I am _not_ OK! Bonnie, my Bonnie, my Bonnie's gone over the ocean, far away, far, far away…" He started laughing then stopped instantaneously, the smile disappearing as a look of horror crossed his face and he began rocking back and forth. "I'm hot. Is it hot in here? Where's Bonnie? I want to see Bonnie! You guys never let me see her! You tell me she's dead, but I never _see_ her, I… I see her in my dreams. She tells me she's not dead. You people are lying, you're _lying_!"

"Mr. Schwartz, are you on any medications?" Sara asked.

He began to shake his head, then stopped and nodded vigorously. "Pills," he said. "Pills to keep me not depressed."

"Antidepressants?" Sara guessed.

But he shook his head. "No, no, no, Roger says they're amphitheaters, like Greece. They amplify sound and light and goodness, and euphoria, and make things better."

"Amphetamines," Sara reasoned. "How many have you taken today?"

"Dunno… dunno…" Harold said, shaking his head. "Dunno. Got them from Roger. Took them from Roger. Not supposed to have them. Now I'm freaking out. You guys think I killed her, don't you? Don't you realize she's not really dead?"

"Who's Roger?" Brass asked.

Harold started laughing. "Roger? Roger! Roger's my brother. He takes care of me."

"Call the brother," Brass said to Sara. "Maybe he can explain this nutcase."

"Can I talk to you outside a moment, Captain Brass?" Sara asked as she rose to her feet. Brass nodded and went with her behind the glass. Brass motioned for an officer to step in and keep an eye on Harold Schwartz.

"What's up?" he asked Sara.

"Greg said the guy didn't say a word and this guy is chatty," Sara said. "And besides that, he looks too out of his mind to do anything as methodical as rape and decapitate a woman and then try to do the same to Greg in one night. Our guy doesn't shake. He has a steady hand. Bonnie Hunter was decapitated when she was alive. The hacking was sloppy, but steady. A steady hand had to have wielded that knife."

"So call the brother," Brass said. "Do we have any evidence linking to a suspect?"

"Absolutely no usable prints," Sara said. "The one Nick collected on the windowsill was a smudged partial I'd hope to clean up and match to something, but it didn't pan out. I um…" she swallowed, "found a hair on Greg's vest… No follicular tag."

"And Bonnie Hunter?" Brass pressed.

Sara shrugged. "She was clean," she said. "Completely wiped down."

"Did you listen to the 911 call yet?" Brass asked. "It came from the crime scene."

"I know," Sara replied, seeming to grow a little pale. "He's not on it."

Brass frowned. "How can he not be on it?"

"I'll show you," she replied. They dismissed Harold Schwartz and Sara took him to the AV lab and queued up the tape so Brass could hear for himself.

"Help… _help_, he's going to kill me… oh God…" broken off by her screams which turned into a guttural spluttering and then silence, broken intermittently by heavy breathing.

"You'd think she'd have identified her attacker," Brass said, looking up at Sara who looked a little shaken.

"Mm," she said simply. "Unless she didn't know who he was."

"Which would exclude our drugged up friend," Brass noted.

Sara shook her head. "What if this _is_ completely random? What if this has nothing to do with anyone she knew? We've got… no evidence short of tire tracks to link to any suspect…"

"He has the head, right?" Brass asked. "So find the head, we find our guy."

She sighed. "Yeah, maybe…"

"You sound doubtful," Brass said. "It's a little early in the game to be pessimistic."

"I know we'll catch him," Sara assured him. "I'm just doubtful we'll do so before he kills again."

* * *

Greg shifted beneath his sheets and closed his eyes, trying to find that elusive sleep. He couldn't seem to find it anywhere. Again. He'd been having difficulty sleeping ever since it had happened. It had been two weeks. He had been discharged by the hospital with a psychiatrist recommended to him by Dr. Evans, but Greg felt weird that she seemed to think he needed something like that. He had thought he'd be alright. After all, he'd gotten over his incident with Demetrius James. Granted, it had taken him a while, and there was the rare, occasional nightmare that disturbed his sleep, but those were few and far between. 

And yet, at least with that, he had _found_ sleep. But ever since it had happened, he had suffered from the most inconvenient bouts of insomnia. It left him groggy and lethargic and sometimes he would just pass out from the exhaustion in front of the TV and sleep for twelve hours on the couch, waking up later with a pain in his neck and feeling like he hadn't gotten any real rest at all. And tonight was no exception.

He heaved a sigh as he swung his legs over the bed, noting the dull ache it caused in the lower half of his body but he ignored it. As he got to his feet, he yawned widely and then rolled his eye. So damn tired, and yet his body refused to sleep. Maybe it thought that if it went to sleep, it wouldn't wake up again. Greg knew what it felt like now, to be slowly decapitated when you were still alive. It gave him a renewed sense of empathy to the victim in that house. He rubbed at the wound on his neck and wondered where he would be if his phone hadn't started to ring and distracted his attacker. He pushed the thoughts from his mind. What he needed to do was put on a good movie, a comedy, something he'd seen fifty times already. Something he knew the words by heart to. Something he could fall asleep to and have dreams about it.

He went to the kitchen and opened his liquor cabinet, which was just the cabinet nearest the fridge. After passing over a few choice liquors, he found his wine collection and smiled. Greg was a sucker for wine, and was always a little bit of a connoisseur. He reached in the back and pulled out a bottle of merlot, Château Coufran Haut-Médoc, 2003. He smiled as he held the wine out at arm's length, examining the bottle. Being a California boy, he had always been partial to California blends, but there was something about French wine that took Greg somewhere else, which is what he very much needed at the moment.

He uncorked the bottle and savored the scent of the fruity blend before pouring a small sample of it into his glass and swirling it a moment. He sampled it and smiled and then poured himself a whole glass. He leaned on his counter when the perfect movie to watch entered his mind.

He took his glass and the bottle into the living room where he turned on the television and popped in the DVD. Wayne's World.

He was actually on his way to drifting off to sleep when his phone rang, waking him instantly.

Cursing loudly, and furious, Greg grabbed the phone more to halt its maddening ringing than anything else.

"Who the hell calls someone at—" he looked at his watch. " Four o'clock in the morning! This better be damn good."

"It's not," came Sara's trembling voice on the other end. "It's not good at all, Greg."

Immediately aware of her anxiety, Greg's fury melted away. "What's wrong?"

"We got another scene," Sara whispered. "Same M.O. of the guy that attacked you."

"You're kidding…" Greg said as a wave of cold fear gripped his heart with icy fingers.

"My God, I wish I was, Greg…" she said. "And… and you won't believe what the 911 caller said."

"What?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to know.

Sara hesitated. "Your name." 


	6. The Elephant in the Room

_**Author's Note:**_ Wow, when I ask you to step up, you really step up! I've surpassed my secret quota so I guess I am uploading again daily again. It's amazing how cliffhangers inspire people. Well, I won't leave you waiting, here's the next chapter.

* * *

Chapter Six: The Elephant In The Room

With bags under his eyes and a windbreaker wrapped tightly around him to keep out the cold, Greg limped down the hall of the CSI lab in search of Sara, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

"Something happen to your foot, Greg?" Catherine asked, halting in her path down the hall immediately when she saw him.

Greg didn't even give her the same courtesy as he kept on walking right past her. "Stubbed my toe," he mumbled, too tired to be friendly and too scared to put on any sort of happy act.

"Aren't you on leave?" she called after his retreating back, but he didn't respond as he turned into the AV lab and saw Sara and Brass huddled by a monitor. Sara turned off the sound instantly upon his arrival and she and Brass both looked up with different expressions. Sara looked horrified, her eyes holding some sort of empathy for Greg and his poor appearance, and a sense of disappointment, but not in him. She was disappointed in the situation. She wished Greg hadn't had to come in at all, but he had insisted on hearing it.

Brass, on the other hand remained as inscrutable as Greg had ever seen him, though his eyes were piercing like a hawk's as if he was examining him.

"I'll go get you two some coffee," Brass said. "I know whatever's going on here is confidential so…" He left swiftly, brushing Greg's shoulder on the way out and hesitating only for an instant, as if wondering whether he should apologize for the accidental contact or not. He took a deep breath and headed on out without another word. Greg watched him go.

"He knows she said my name?" Greg asked.

"He's been helping me peripherally with this case," Sara explained. "He is a detective. I'm not. You know."

Greg nodded, his lips straight as he rubbed his arms. His eyes darted all over the room, as if looking for other friends that may be hiding behind computer monitors or in cupboards. He felt a strange chill and began rubbing his arms more fiercely, even though he still wore his windbreaker.

"Where's Grissom?" Greg asked, changing the subject.

Sara looked like she was about to say something then seemed to think better of it, so instead said loudly, "Um… He's at the scene. Processing the girl. She never gave up the location, but we were able to trace the call, it was off the hook for so long. It was in another semi-remote location on the outskirts of the city. Go figure."

"So what did she say exactly?" Greg pressed.

Sara bit her lip. "OK," she said. "Come here."

He had been standing in the doorway, as if approaching Sara and crossing the six feet of distance between them would be some breaking some sort of wicked taboo. But upon her invitation, he hesitantly stepped forward, his legs shaking, his body sore from lack of sleep. He came up behind her and was soon close enough to see that the hairs on her arms were standing on end. He leaned on one arm on the table by her mouse hand, and placed the other on the back of her chair, but took extra care not to touch her, not even accidentally. He didn't think she noticed.

She did.

With a quick glance at him, she moved the mouse and clicked play.

"911, what is your emergency?"

The woman was sobbing hysterically. Greg could barely make out the words. "This man… raped me now he's going to… k-k-kill me…" And then she broke into fits of sobs.

"Hold on, ma'am, where are you?"

"Can't say…" she choked. "Can't say yet, he'll kill me."

"Who is _he_, ma'am?" the operator asked. "Is it someone you know?"

"N-no…" she sobbed. "His n-name is Gr-Greg S-Sanders… Oh my God… Oh my God, please, _don't_—!" And then she screamed loudly, a scream that was stifled by chocking and spluttering and then the phone fell to the floor and all that was left was heavy breathing.

Sara stopped the tape and looked up at Greg, waiting. He didn't move for a moment, his eyes on the monitor, and then a smile slowly crept across his face.

"Well," he said, standing up fully again. She spun in her chair to look at him and he laughed lightly as he looked down at her. "Um. I wasn't the killer. I've been drinking merlot and watching Wayne's World all night. Scout's honor."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you're not the _killer_, Greg," she said. "Don't you _get_ it?"

Greg blinked at her. "No," he said honestly, feeling a bit dim.

She growled in frustration. "He's _fucking_ with us!"

"Oh," he said. "Yeah, I got that much. How come I'm not a suspect yet? How come Brass hasn't read me my rights? I mean, if that girl had said any other name, you would have hauled his ass in—"

"Greg, he's fucking with us," Sara repeated. "We're not stupid. We know it's not you."

"Do you?" Greg asked. "Because the only alibis I have are Mike Meyers and Dana Carvey and I don't think they can actually—"

"Greg, stop this," Sara interrupted sternly. "Stop… _doing_ this!"

"Doing what?" Greg asked. "I'm just asking a perfectly logical question, I mean, if someone called 911 and said _you_ were killing them, I would _definitely_ at least be a _little _suspicious that you were slowly poisoning me to death every time you offered to get me coffee—"

"No," Sara interrupted sharply. "That's _not_ what you're doing. You know you didn't do it. I know you didn't do it. But _you_ don't want to face what this _really_ means, so instead, you hide behind _stupid_ jokes and try to pass _everything_ off like it's no big deal!"

Greg was stunned into silence and his grin faded fast. He looked away from her and shoved his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker again.

She was breathing hard, recovering from her outburst of anger before she closed her eyes and composed herself. "Look, Greg…" she said, opening her eyes again. "I'm sorry, but it's true. I need your help and you're cracking jokes. I need you to understand the gravity of the situation here. He knows your _name_ and he's using it as an alias to fuck with us. He wouldn't let her say where she was, but he _would_ let her tell us his name. Or your name, rather. You think that's some quirky coincidence? Or do you think the killer just _happens_ to have the same name as you?"

Greg's bottom lip trembled, but he stopped that quickly enough by biting it. "Sara, I just…" His voice was shaking and so he took a second to steady it. He continued, more deliberately. "I just want everything to go back to like it was. No crazy serial killer using my name, no insomnia, no injuries, no ray…" He coughed. "No ray…"

He couldn't seem to find the words and he looked away from her sharply. He pulled his hands from his pockets, one hand rubbing his eyes, the other arm wrapped around his stomach.

Sara felt her heart nearly break and she reached out a hand to grab the one around his stomach, but he pulled it from her grasp and buried it deep in his pocket again.

"Don't touch me…" he whispered, shaking his head, his hand still over his eyes.

She nodded slowly. She didn't know what to say. She was at an absolute loss for words, her stomach tying itself in knots, her mind doing back flips to try and think of the perfect, cure-all phrase, but she came up empty. She wanted it to all go away too. She wished more than anything for Greg to have his life back. But she knew better than him, better than anyone, that the best way to do that would to be to find the man that shattered him.

And then, her mind stopped leaping around and urged her to voice her thoughts. "We need to find him, Greg," she said softly. "We need to find him so you can have closure, and so we can begin picking up the pieces and putting you back together again."

"What if I'm like Humpty Dumpty?" Greg asked, separating his fingers over his eyes and looking at her from between them.

She laughed, but it was a sad, worried laugh. "I think CSIs can fix things better than a couple of horses and men can, don't you? What can a horse fix anyway? They don't even have opposable thumbs, they have hooves! It's absurd, really."

He smiled at her flat attempt at humor, and she knew it was appreciated nevertheless. He took a deep breath. "OK," he said. "What do you want from me?"

She nodded. It was back to business and they both knew it. Just another case. That was how they had to think of it. It was the only way they could think of it without losing their minds. "I need to know if he spoke… at all. Or if you spoke. I need to know how he knows your name."

Greg shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "Look, I can't help you. I screamed…" she flinched but he pretend not to notice. "… But no precise words…"

She sighed and nodded. "Well… He saw your vest, right? Sanders is on your vest…"

"But no first name," Greg said. "And he didn't really look at my vest so much as he threw it aside."

Again she flinched, and again he pretended not to notice. "OK so…" And then she closed her eyes and rolled them behind her lids as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh my God. The press release."

Greg's eyes shot open to double their normal size but other than that he didn't move. "There was a press release?"

"Only that a CSI was attacked," Sara said quickly. "No specifics, cross my heart, just that your throat was cut, that's it. But they did release your name. My God, of _course_ he knows your name! What sort of self-indulgent psycho _wouldn't_ watch the news report on his handiwork? Jesus!"

"Hey, calm down," Greg said, reaching out to grab her by the shoulder. She stopped, and so did he, and for a moment, his hand hung there in midair before it dropped to his side and he shuffled awkwardly.

She decided to point out the elephant in the room. "You're not too big on the touching."

He rolled his eyes and ignored the elephant. "So psycho got my name from the news and now he's using it to fuck with us."

"Right," Sara said, snapping back to her professional detachment.

"I'm glad I could help clear that up," Greg said. "What else do you need me for?"

"Uh…" Sara wracked her brain. "Nothing really. Unless you have anything you want to tell me…?"

"I'm tired," Greg said, which meant 'No.'

"OK," Sara said with a sigh.

"I could hang out though…" Greg suggested timidly. "In case you need me or something."

"I thought you were tired," Sara said.

"I'm…" Greg trailed off and his eyes scanned the room for anywhere to look at other than Sara.

He didn't need to finish. Sara recognized the emotion as one she had felt on several occasions herself when she returned home to an empty apartment and left-over takeout for dinner. He was lonely.

"Sure," Sara said. "You can stay for a while if you want."

"Can I hang out here with you?" Greg asked, suddenly lighting up with excitement. "I mean, unless I'd be in the way…"

"Wouldn't the lounge be more comfortable?" Sara asked. "I mean, there's a couch, and food, and coffee, and a TV…" His face fell and she changed her tone. "I don't mean I don't want you around, I just thought—"

"If I go to the lounge, Nick or Catherine or Warrick will see me and they'll want to know what I'm doing here and I don't have an answer for them, Sara," he explained. "At least if I'm with you, I can use you as a shield."

"A shield," Sara repeated dully. She had the image of a tiny Greg ducking behind her and offering her up as a sacrifice to a fuming Catherine-Nick-Warrick hybrid monster.

"Yeah," Greg said. "If they ask, you can just deflect the questions. Keep the attention off of me. Distract them."

"Right," she said slowly. "Sure, you can hang out here. But Brass will be back soon. And we'll need to work. And talk about things. You know this case _is_ confidential."

"Yeah, to everyone who's _not_ me," Greg said, already making himself at home as he sat down— carefully, Sara noted— in a nearby swivel chair.

"Still…" Sara said, becoming nervous. "There are things…"

He caught her in a piercing, suspicious stare. "Sara Sidle, are you hiding something from me?"

"No," she said, a little too quickly to be convincing.

He sighed. "If you're this bad a liar, it's a wonder how you've kept this case confidential for this long. What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"

Sara opened her mouth but did not reply and was about to confess when there was a knock at the door and Brass pushed it open, carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Greg first, then to Sara.

"Did you get everything you needed?" he asked, looking at the both of them.

"Yes," Sara said, smiling at him appreciatively for saving her from answering Greg.

"No," Greg said, looking at Sara.

Both Brass and Sara turned to him. "I'm not hiding anything from you, Greg," she said sternly.

"You're much more convincing when you repeat a lie," Greg noted bitterly. He rose to his feet. "I don't need this. I'm going home."

"Greg!" She reached out to him with her voice, and wished she could do more with her hands.

But he did stop, shoulder to shoulder with Brass. The two were an inch from touching. "What?" he asked through gritted teeth.

She didn't know how to answer him. There were so many things she wanted to say, but if she voiced any of them she was afraid she'd burst into tears right then and there. She wanted to say that she was sorry, for everything he'd had to go through. She wanted to say she was sorry she couldn't prevent it. She wanted to say she was sorry that she couldn't fix it. She wanted to tell him that he was her friend, and that she loved him and that she wished she could find this man herself so she could personally kick his ass for what he did to him.

But she said none of this. "Never mind."

He nodded curtly at Brass before heading out the door.

* * *

Greg gulped down his lukewarm coffee. He was in a horrid mood. He didn't want to go home, and yet he no longer wanted to stay here. He supposed he could hide away in the lounge. At least there was more coffee there. And if he saw anyone he didn't want to talk to… he'd make a joke. It was what he did best.

But upon entering the break room, he caught sight of Nick and Warrick speaking quietly to each other over a cup of coffee. He froze like a deer in the headlights. He was about to turn on his heal and walk away, hoping he hadn't been seen yet, when Nick looked up and stopped talking abruptly. Warrick looked over his shoulder and followed Nick's gaze. Figuring it was too late to run, Greg decided to pretend he wasn't perturbed by his friends' scrutiny and headed over to one of the cabinets where he kept his stash of Blue Hawaiian. For their part, neither Nick nor Warrick said a word.

It came to a point where Greg had to use the coffee maker in order to brew his coffee and Warrick and Nick dutifully stepped aside so he could reach it and watched him as he prepared a new pot. Greg tossed them a suspicious look.

"I'm sorry, was I interrupting some tantalizing conversation?" he asked. "A nice piece of gossip perhaps?"

"We were discussing a case," Warrick replied.

"OK," Greg said. "Sorry to have interrupted your meeting then. I'll be on my way."

"Greg—" but Nick stopped mid-sentence, not sure of what he wanted to say.

Greg looked up at him expectantly and waited. Nick's eyes were etched in concern, but he held his tongue. Greg shrugged and turned to leave when Nick blurted out what he wanted to say.

"What happened?"

The dreaded question. But Greg had been expecting it, so he betrayed no signs of fear or discomfort. He turned back to Nick and smiled at him. "I needed coffee. Came in here to get coffee. Asked what you were doing—"

"Not that," Nick said.

Greg's eyes flickered over to Warrick, who seemed to wish he was elsewhere. He took Nick's arm. "Come on, man, we have a case—"

"What happened out in the desert?" Nick pressed. "Why are things so confidential? What is Grissom keeping from us and why did you tell him to keep it quiet?"

"I didn't tell Grissom anything," Greg lied.

"Sara says different," Nick returned coldly.

Greg's irritation towards Sara grew. "Well Sara was wrong. I don't know what she and Grissom found on the case. I'm as much in the dark as you are."

"I…" He stumbled with his words before letting out a frustrated growl and making a quick exit leaving Greg and Warrick alone.

Greg watched Nick's retreating back then turned back to Warrick, who was pinching the bridge of his nose as if to quell an oncoming headache. Warrick felt his gaze and looked up at Greg inscrutably. His piercing dark eyes bored holes in Greg, and for a moment, Greg wondered what he saw in him.

Finally, Warrick took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm sorry about him," he said. "He's been agitated for the past two weeks. He's worried about you. He's angry that Griss and Sara aren't saying anything. He feels like they don't trust him. He feels like _you _don't trust him."

"But I just said—"

"I know," Warrick interrupted. "He doesn't believe that. Neither do I."

Greg was quiet. He had no defense. "I didn't…"

"Don't, Greg," Warrick advised. "The less you say the better." And with that, the older CSI made his way calmly past Greg and went in pursuit of Nick.

With nothing else to do, and feeling more isolated from the world than he'd ever felt in his life, Greg took his newly brewed coffee, sat down on the couch, and turned on the television in hopes of distracting himself from a world he no longer felt a part of.

* * *


	7. Zombies and a Curling Iron

_**Author's Note:**_ "Resident Evil" is a very popular and well-made video game series that was transformed into a very bad movie series about zombies and parasites. That's your pop culture reference of the day. If you want to learn more, google it. The title of this chapter is exceedingly random, yet relevant at the same time. Woohoo for me! Keep reviewing. It's a little slow right now, I know, but I promise it picks up.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Zombies and a Curling Iron  


"Warrick!" Catherine called as she saw the man in question making his way swiftly past the trace lab. He did not respond. Bidding a curt goodbye to Hodges she took off after him at a brisk pace and called his name again.

He stopped, but seemed frustrated. "Not now, Catherine, I have to find Nick. Have you seen him?"

"No," she said. "But have you seen Greg?"

"Greg is the reason Nick ran out," Warrick replied.

"Did you see his limp?" Catherine pressed.

"What limp?" Warrick asked, his brow furrowing.

She smiled. "One time I told Lindsey to stop climbing a sycamore outside of our house because I was afraid she'd fall. Well she didn't listen to me and when she finally did fall, she earned herself a solid gash on her left leg. She thought she could hide it from me by wearing long pants but she hadn't cleaned or dressed the wound properly so it got infected—"

"Does this anecdote have a point?" Warrick snapped impatiently.

She looked taken aback. "I just meant that I know a limp when I see one, even if the person is trying to hide it. And Greg's is only visible when he's walking fast."

Warrick looked tired as he buried his face in his hands and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Catherine, but Grissom's out with that new homicide and it's got me a little on edge, not to mention this thing with Greg, and it's got Nick wound tighter than a… see, I can't even think of a proper metaphor, I'm so distracted."

"What new homicide?" Catherine asked, intrigued.

"Same M.O as Bonnie Hunter's killer. Which makes me think that…" He trailed off, his eyes moving elsewhere but he shook his head. "Never mind. My head is all foggy from lack of sleep. Ecklie pulled me in for swing shift because they were short, so this is my second shift today. My mind's playing tricks on me. Like waking nightmares. It ain't pretty."

She smiled sweetly, reassuringly as she rubbed his arm, acting like a mother might towards her child after he awoke from a particularly bad dream. "You're tough, you'll make it through shift," she said. "You've worked doubles, triples even, on less sleep."

"It's not the lack of sleep that's getting to me, it's all this antipathy that's hanging in the air," Warrick said. "Since Greg was attack, it's like a storm cloud came and settled permanently over the lab. Sara and Grissom are acting like they work for the CIA. Do you know I haven't even spoken to Sara since we were at Bonnie Hunter's crime scene? And the only time I ever talk to Grissom is for case related issues. And Nick hates everyone because no one's talking, and since I keep trying to reason with him he keeps biting my head off… And Greg is never around… How long exactly does it take to recover from a wound to the throat? If the hospital discharged him, shouldn't he be OK to work? My God, Catherine, it's just… you seem to be the only one going on like everything is normal. A regular ray of sunshine in this dismal hellhole."

Her smile turned into a grin and she almost blushed, but she was too proud for that. "I have faith that as soon as this case is over things will start going back to normal."

"How do you know that?" Warrick asked.

"It's just a feeling I have," she replied. "I mean after they've caught the guy… what's there to hide?"

"You think it's confidential because telling us will hurt the case?" Warrick asked.

"I can't think of a better reason Grissom would keep something form us," Catherine returned.

"I can…" Warrick mumbled and he looked away from her.

She touched his chin and made him look at her again. "I trust Grissom," she said.

Warrick wanted to say that he trusted Grissom too, but he couldn't find the words. "I just can't shake the feeling that there's something… uncanny about this case. Something wrong. Something poisonous. And it's like it's infected Grissom and Sara and it killed them and now they're just… zombies. Hosts to some parasite and they're just doing its bidding and adding fuel to the fire."

"Don't go all Resident Evil on me," Catherine said. "I know Gil, and Sara's not much different. They may be dismal, but they're focused, and they're sharp. They're just working the case. Don't talk to me about zombies and parasites."

Warrick looked surprised. "Resident Evil?"

She rolled her eyes. "Lindsey—"

"Say no more."

She laughed lightly and it even made him smile for the first time in days.

And then, they both heard a bang coming from the locker room. They looked towards it and then back to each other, echoing each other's thoughts.

"Nick."

They both ran off just as Sara rounded the corner and stopped as she looked after them, then looked in at Hodges, who was busy working on the evidence Catherine had left him. Sara turned into the trace lab and sat down on the other side of the counter, watching him until he became so irritated by her scrutiny he would look up and tell her to stop it.

But he never did.

He went on as if she wasn't there, and it took Sara a full minute and a half to finally decide to admit defeat and be the first to speak. "What are you working on?"

"Catherine has some trace for her homicide off of Mason Avenue," he replied absently, focusing the microscope. "Hm. Cotton."

"Do you remember the hair I found on Greg's vest?" Sara asked.

He seemed to flinch ever so slightly at her mention of it, but other than that he seemed unfazed. "Sure," he said, straightening up to look at her across the table. He was as Hodges-like as ever, and typically unpredictable. Try as she may, Sara could never read him.

"What color was it?" she asked.

"Dark blonde," he replied. "I would say it could be Greg's, but then it showed no signs of chemical damage. It was a natural blonde."

Sara recalled Harold's sandy hair. "About how long was it?"

"A little under six inches," he replied.

Sara nodded. "Anything unusual?"

"Not really," he replied. "Fine, thin hair. Broken medulla. Hard to get a precise match. A lot of people could have hair like that."

She sighed and closed her eyes, feeling as though they had reached a dead end. "Hopefully Grissom will have more when he gets back."

Hodges bit his lip. He looked like he was bursting to ask her something. And then, he went for it. "Is Greg…" But as soon as he had started, he stopped again, and fidgeted, before turning around and going back to his work.

She smiled warmly at him, though he could not see her as he was once again engrossed in his work. She found that being busy was the best way he could find of avoiding people. And it was the perfect excuse to ignore him. After all, he was paid to process evidence, not sit around and chit chat. He had told her that once when she had insistently interrupted him in testing a poison to ask him to verify a rumor that Wendy had turned him down for a date.

"He's doing OK, considering," Sara replied, guessing that was what Hodges was going to ask.

He didn't respond, nor did he even make any move to show that he had heard her at all. He was back to ignoring her again. She didn't mind. He always did this when he didn't want to show that he cared.

And then her heart leapt into her throat as Grissom appeared in the doorway, looking solemn, but holding an evidence bag which he sat on the table before nodding at Sara in hello. She beamed at him, but he did not return it, and her smile faded.

Hodges looked up, sensing a second presence, and walked over to the counter where Grissom had laid his evidence. "Should I put this before Catherine's?" he asked. "I don't think she'll like that."

"I think she'll understand," Grissom replied, his voice low and calm. But Sara was experienced enough to know that Grissom was a vast lake, and his still waters ran very deep indeed. And she could detect a hint of disquiet under his placid surface, his own Loch Ness Monster stirring up trouble in his darkest depths.

He turned his gaze back to her and blinked at her. She tried to bring a smile to his lips by flashing him her own, playful smirk, along with a wink. The corners of his lips twitched before turning into a full-blown smile, albeit a strangely tragic one. He opened his mouth as if to say something to her, then seemed to remember himself as he snapped it shut and looked at Hodges. He had forgotten they weren't alone.

"So am I on DNA duty tonight too?" Hodges asked, looking at a swab of blood.

"You know this case is confidential," Grissom said. "And you know why."

Slowly, he nodded. He looked about to complain, but he was biting his tongue. Sara had thought that Hodges would be excited to have been taken into Grissom's confidence, but he had only greeted the extra workload this case was giving him with begrudging indifference. She knew that he didn't appreciate all the extra work, but he would dutifully do it if Grissom told him to. David Hodges wasn't the biggest fan of Greg Sanders, but he wasn't as big of a misanthrope as he would have others to believe either. Beneath their bickering and caustic remarks, Hodges and Greg had always seen each other as worthy opponents. On some level, Sara knew that Hodges probably liked Greg, or at least appreciated him, enough that now that Greg was in trouble, Hodges was rising to the occasion to help him anyway he could. Though he would probably never admit it.

"What did you find?" Sara asked, turning her attention to Grissom.

He looked at her impassively. "A dead body."

It was his grim attempt at humor. "I mean evidence. What happened?"

"She was naked… raped… decapitated… African American… So now it's not only gender, it's race that he doesn't seem to care about. He doesn't have a type at all. Makes the profile a little harder."

"We'll let Brass worry about that," Sara said.

"Brass?" Grissom allowed a hint of curiosity to leak into his voice.

"Mm," Sara said. "He's… been quite helpful." He narrowed his eyes but didn't inquire further. Still, under his scrutiny, she knew she had to explain herself. "He figured it out. It had nothing to do with me. It's not exactly the hardest thing to put together you know."

"Hodges," Grissom said suddenly, an idea striking him. "Do a tox screen."

"A what?" Sara asked.

"There was a dirty wine glass that had tipped over on her bed," Grissom explained. "I collected a sample of the wine and swabbed the rim in hopes of getting maybe some DNA. If it was her wine and it was drugged then she may have been more easily manipulated. There were no ligature marks, not like Bonnie Hunter at least, so she was unbound. How did she sound on the tape?"

"Hysterical," Sara replied. "She didn't sound drugged, but I suppose she could have been."

"It deviates from his pattern…" Grissom whispered. "Are we sure it's not a—"

"Copycat?" Sara finished. "Damn sure. Grissom, she said Greg's name."

"Which the copycat could have gotten off of the news. He may have been confused, thought Greg's name was a suspect… Or thought you'd think the killer was messing with you."

"The phone calls to 911?" Sara said. "That wasn't released to the press."

Grissom pursed his lips. "OK," he said at last.

"What else did you get from the scene?" Sara asked.

"She was clean," Grissom said, shaking his head. "Impossibly so, it was…" He sighed. "No prints. Nothing. Just… things I thought that maybe… The wine glass, for instance… It could have…" He looked away, deep in thought. Sara knew he was at the point where his wheels were turning and he stopped completing sentences out loud and finished them in his head. He became oblivious to the world in these instances, often blurting out things he didn't mean to say, thoughts that suddenly came to him that left those who happened to hear him baffled. He chewed on his lip as he mentally catalogued all the evidence he'd collected before sighing. He looked at Sara and then at Hodges, who had stopped what he was doing to watch Grissom. "I don't know. Be creative, Hodges. You might get something out of this evidence I didn't."

"We have…" Hodges said, looking at the evidence on his desk. "A knife, a wine glass, and her clothes, which aren't torn…"

"I processed them for hairs," Grissom said. "I found one, but again there's no tag." He nodded at another evidence bag.

"Right," Hodges said. "Her clothes, a hair, and…" He frowned, looking at the last bag. "A bloody curling iron? But I thought…" Sara looked disgusted and Hodges seemed to realize what was going on and stopped talking. He blanched. "Oh… damn…"

"He's raping these women—" Grissom stopped to think. "—These people… with objects that are associated with them. Curling iron, broom handle… gun… Our vic, Lauren, worked at a hair salon. Bonnie Hunter was obsessive compulsive about the upkeep of her apartment, and Greg…"

And then, suddenly, Brass appeared in the doorway. "You'll never believe what I just found out from her roommate," he panted. All three of them looked up at Brass curiously, Grissom's musings temporarily forgotten. "Lauren Johnson had a date that night with a man she'd met at a bar two days ago. Lauren had told her roommate that he said his name was Harold."

Sara grinned and leaped to her feet, throwing her arms around Brass's neck. "You are by far my favorite person right now," she said, pulling away from him so she could beam at him.

"Well, hold on," Brass said. "This is all circumstantial. Harold isn't exactly an uncommon name. And just because she was meeting him doesn't mean she ever _did_. The roommate had left for the evening upon Lauren's request, and that's the last time they spoke. All she knew was that they were supposed to meet at a club. But you're right. This is a very big lead. Providing we get more from your evidence…"

"We won't," Grissom said, dismally. "He left none of his DNA behind."

"Fingernail scrapings?" Sara asked hopefully.

"Her hands were cleaned," Grissom said. "How he has time to do all that between the time he kills her and the time the police arrive…"

"He didn't linger this time," Brass deduced.

"If he did, the dozen officers you sent over with me definitely scared him away," Grissom said with the hint of a smile.

Sara looked from Brass to Grissom. "But we still have enough to hold him, don't we?"

"We'll see…" Brass said. "You said it yourself, he seemed a little jittery for murder, didn't he? His lawyer will probably point that out… I think we need more. But I'll definitely pull him in. Play everything casual. He'll break eventually."

Sara was still grinning. "I'm going to go tell Greg," she said, her previous quarrel with him forgotten, and with that she darted out of the room to find him.

* * *


	8. Guilt

_**Author's Note:**_ Sorry I didn't post last night but I figured you all would be too excited with the CSI premier to notice. Anyways, I don't want to go into that now, here's your chapter, hoped you enjoyed the premier and had fun.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Guilt  


Catherine and Warrick turned around the corner and entered the locker room to find Nick and a dented locker door.

"Dammit!" Nick swore loudly, throwing the locker door closed. Catherine and Warrick exchanged looks and Nick seemed to just notice they were there. He looked up at them and closed his eyes. "Catherine, you get it, right? This is _our_ _fault_!"

This was the first time either of them had heard him say that. Warrick was baffled, but Catherine stepped forward and slowly shook her head.

"No, Nick," she said. "I don't believe that it is."

He heaved a monstrous sigh and sat down on the bench, burying his face in his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. "It was our case, we could have handled it on our own. We were lazy."

"That property was huge," Catherine returned. "And there was blood everywhere inside. We needed more people. And even if we didn't call for backup, you know one of us would have followed the blood trail anyways and—"

"He should have _waited_," Nick insisted, shaking his head. "He should have… Someone should have gone _with_ him. What the hell was he thinking, leaving the perimeter on his own?"

She smiled warmly at him and took another step forward, tilting her head down to try and catch his eye. "It sounds to me like you're just looking for someway to blame yourself and Greg," she whispered. "But it was the guy who attacked him, Nicky. That's the only person whose fault this is."

He looked up at Catherine and Warrick and they saw his eyes glistening. "Something happened there, Catherine, something _bad_ and I don't… I don't know what it _was_, but I _do_ because it's eating at me, like some roaches on old pizza, it's trying to tell me something and I don't know _what_."

"I have that feeling too," Warrick said, stepping forward. "And the more I think about it the more I feel that maybe Griss was right not to include us on this."

"He was _wrong_," Nick grumbled, kicking the locker nearest him for good measure. "Whatever it is, we can handle it. I just hate not _knowing_. I don't _understand_."

Catherine looked from Nick to Warrick. Nick was frustrated, but to her surprise Warrick looked… almost afraid.

"I don't either," he said softly, but Catherine felt that wasn't true. "But you have to let it go."

"Warrick…" she began slowly, remembering something he had said earlier. "Warrick, what were you going to say when—"

"Nick," Warrick said, ignoring Catherine completely as he left her side to go sit next to his friend. He put an arm around Nick's shoulder. "Listen. We were all pissed when Grissom took us off the case, but I think maybe he was right in a way. He's _smart_ and I…" He looked over at Catherine and gave her a weak smile. "I trust him. Don't you?"

"It wasn't his idea…" Nick whispered shaking his head. "It's not his secret to tell."

"What do you mean, Nick?" Warrick asked, and Catherine noticed he was stern, worried, almost angry as he spoke through gritted teeth.

Nick didn't seem to notice Warrick's change in demeanor. "Sara… she said Greg…"

Warrick relaxed. "I know what she said," Warrick said quietly. "But in Greg's defense, she might have just said that to get her file back."

And once again, Catherine could tell Warrick didn't completely believe that himself. But it seemed important to him that Nick did. So she found herself playing along, overprotective parents keeping their child from some terrible truth that they didn't even know with a wonderful white lie they all wanted to believe.

"He's right, Nicky," she said softly, approaching the both of them and sitting down on Nick's other side.

"He's wrong," Nick said, shaking his head.

Warrick caught Catherine's eye over Nick's hunched back. "Hey, listen buddy, I'm going to go check up on Wendy on our DNA evidence. You just calm down a little, OK. Catherine, didn't you say you had to see Wendy too?"

She was about to say no when it occurred to her what Warrick was doing and she nodded. "Yes," she said. "Yeah, I do." She rose to her feet again and Warrick followed.

Once safely out of earshot of Nick, Warrick glanced around for anyone else before saying to Catherine, "Walk."

She obeyed and they began a brisk pace down the hall, Warrick's eyes darting everywhere for familiar faces.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"My head," he said. "It does crazy things when left to its own devices. Part of that makes me a good CSI. When I don't know things, my mind comes up with all sorts of scenarios, from the probable to the obscure. For example, one of my obscure scenarios for this case is that Greg was abducted by aliens who performed an autopsy that lasted days and then went back in time and returned him here and that's why it's confidential."

"You really are absurd," Catherine said with a small chuckle.

"It's not funny," Warrick said flatly, not looking at her. She stopped laughing. "I mean, it is funny. I guess. That part. But that's why I told you that first. Because it's funny and it shows you the kind of ludicrous ideas my mind comes up with. So don't freak out when I present you with another one. Because in my mind, it's just as ludicrous, but much more disturbing."

"What is it, Warrick?" Catherine asked, fearing the worst.

Warrick stopped walking in the middle of the hall, people bustling around them as he grabbed her by the shoulders so she would look him in the eye. "I didn't want to say this in front of Nick. I don't think he'd want to hear it. And it's just a theory, but if you think about it, it makes perfect sense."

"Spit it out!" Catherine exclaimed, becoming impatient.

"Bonnie Hunter was raped and decapitated," Warrick said, his voice getting quieter with each word and his grip on Catherine's shoulders growing tighter by the second. "This new homicide Grissom investigated. She was _also_ raped and decapitated. Greg was nearly decapitated and something _else_ went down that we, for some reason, aren't privy to. Have you come to the same conclusion I have?"

Her mind was a flurry of thoughts, all of them swirling around like twisters, making her dizzy. She grabbed one at random from out of the air. "Greg is a suspect…?"

He laughed, almost in relief, and his grip slackened on her. "Jesus, I knew I was crazy…" he said.

She sighed. "_That's_ you're wacky theory?"

But he was shaking his head. "No, Catherine, no. But you didn't come to the conclusion I did. And yours… I'd much rather believe yours. Believe me."

"Greg can't be a suspect," Catherine said, shaking his head. "They would be more… I don't know. They would treat him more like a suspect. And that's—"

"I think Greg was raped," Warrick blurted out suddenly.

Catherine thought her heart stopped. The thought-storm that had been whirling around in her brain came to a very abrupt halt and all the thoughts and debris fell to the floor of her mind like slaughtered birds that fell out of the sky.

She licked her lips, taking in this new, sudden information, and her mind instantly set up a road block when she tried to follow that train of thought. The big sign read "No Entry—Find Another Route." And of course, it was right. That road would only lead to pain. Disgust. Outrage. No. She had to find another route, she had to find another way, another explanation, because she couldn't think, he couldn't have been, he would never, not _Greg—_

"Catherine!" Warrick's voice broke into her cluttered, scattered mind and she became aware that she hadn't said anything for several minutes, she had just stared at him. His grip on her shoulders was tight again and she shrugged him off and smiled, pretending the last few minutes— including the words that had set off her catatonia— had never happened.

"I have a case…" she began.

"It makes _sense_, doesn't it?" Warrick hissed desperately, as if looking for validation that he wasn't crazy to have thought of it. "It's so _obvious_, but I just didn't want to think… Don't tell me it's never even _occurred_ to you that maybe—"

"We shouldn't be talking about this," Catherine whispered harshly. "We shouldn't be spreading rumors. Warrick! We don't _know_ what happened, we don't _know_, aliens _could_ be involved, but we don't _know_ do we? Don't go talking about _that_! You'll only make things _worse_!"

And with that, she spun on her heal and angrily marched down the hall.

"You know I'm right!" he called after her. "And eventually you'll accept it. It's the only thing that makes _sense_!"

She made a rude gesture at him and kept on walking.

* * *

Sara jogged into the break room beaming and found Greg channel flipping with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked up briefly upon her entrance and then looked sharply away again. 

"I have nothing to say to you," he said quietly.

She seemed to remember they had been fighting and her smile faded a little. She entered the room and sat down next to him, though was careful not to brush him accidentally. She wanted to reach out and hold his hand, hug him, and make all his nightmares fly away. But she couldn't. Touching was no longer a comfort to Greg. It was an act of aggression.

"I have something to say to _you_," she said instead.

He glanced at her, momentarily interested. "An apology?"

She frowned, then sighed. "I'm sorry for pissing you off."

"Do you even know why you pissed me off?" he asked.

"Because you thought I was lying to you," she replied.

"Because you _were_— no, I'm sorry, _are_ lying to me," Greg corrected.

"And how is that different from how you're dealing with Nick and the others?" Sara retorted.

He was angry again. "Because I deserve your—" It took a great deal of effort, but he cut himself off and grit his teeth, before looking away from her resolutely and staring at the TV, sulking.

She had no idea what he had been about to say. He deserved her… sympathy? Respect? Attention? She didn't like any of these, so she asked. "Deserve my _what_, Greg?"

He sighed. "Honesty," he replied. "I deserve your honesty."

"More than Nick deserves yours."

"You don't _understand_," he growled, and then, more quietly, "And God willing, you never will."

And then it was there, the urge to hold him again, to comfort him, to tell him everything would be alright. And that overwhelming sense of guilt she had felt in the AV lab was back too. "Greg, I… I am sorry. But Brass, he—"

"He knows," Greg said quietly. "I could tell by the way he looked at me. That's how I knew you were lying."

It was funny, because to her, Brass was a master of inscrutability. She was amazed Greg could read him so well. "But I thought he… I mean, I couldn't see any difference…"

He gave her an awkward smile. "When… something happens to you and people know about it… You know when they know."

She lowered her eyes, suddenly feeling afraid to look at him.

"Did you tell him?" Greg asked sharply, making her look up at him again her.

"No," she said firmly, for it was the truth. "No, I would never."

"And yet you're telling me to tell the whole goddamn lab," Greg said.

"Not the lab, just Nick! Catherine! Warrick! They are _so_ worried about you, Greg, and Grissom and I are running out of _excuses_ and… And it will help. I promise you, it will help, and—"

"Have you ever had something," he interrupted calmly, his eyes on the flickering lights of the TV, "that you never, _ever_ wanted anyone to know? Because of the way people might… look at you?"

She thought of her parents, and realized how insensitive she had been. Greg was right. She didn't understand at all. "Yes," she said quietly.

Greg closed his eyes tight. "If Brass is supposedly really good at hiding things… and I could still tell… What do you think it would be like if the others knew? I don't want to feel their eyes. Their… pity…"

"I know what it's like to be stared at," Sara told him.

"It's not the same, being stared at and being pitied," Greg replied quietly.

"I know what it's like to be pitied," Sara reiterated.

But he turned to her and favored her with one of his impish grins. "People have pitied you? They must have been angels. Or else highly conceited and worthy of your contempt."

She found herself smiling too. "You have such a high opinion of me," she said. "I'll never understand why."

"I'll never understand why you have such a low opinion of me," Greg returned.

She wanted to hold him again, and it hurt her heart to restrain herself. Her hand, which wanted so badly to clasp his, clenched into a fist on her thigh. "I don't," she whispered.

He looked away from her.

She was afraid to tell him what she really thought of him. And yet she felt he needed to hear it. But not now. "I have good news," she said quietly. He simply let out a sigh in reply and rubbed his arms as if he was cold, but he did not look at her. "We have a suspect. A good one."

"Great," he said flatly, clearly unenthused.

His dejected tone was the last straw. Without warning, she reached out a hand and put it on his shoulder, but he wriggled away from her and shot daggers at her. She withdrew her hand as if she had touched a flame. "I'm sorry," she said. "I can't help it."

"Neither can I," he replied.

Her heart ached so much. These days, just being with Greg was an emotional battle. It was hard to sit with him without wanting to burst into tears, or throw up, or scramble to think of a joke to make things less awkward. It was almost too much for her, and she hated herself for that. She hated that she couldn't be the person he needed, because she was afraid of him. The tears began to sting the back of her eyes and she looked away from him sharply so he wouldn't see.

But he did. "What are you crying about?" he asked in a light, jovial tone. The mood change was so abrupt, it made her look at him in bafflement. But he was smiling. "Don't cry, Sara. Please? I'm not crying. And I think I have plenty more reason to do so than you do."

She forced a smile. "How do you do that?" she asked. "You're… angry one minute, and then joking the next, how do you _do_ that?"

"It's a talent," he replied. "No, a… skill that takes many years to master. I'm taking students, if you want to learn." He smirked at her, and for all his insanity, and for all she feared him too, she loved him more in that moment than she ever had. Like an older sister looks out for her brother, she swore from then on to look out for him, and never let anything seize that spark of innocence he had somehow maintained, through all he had suffered through.

"The suspect," Sara began, "His name is—"

"I don't want to know," Greg interrupted quickly.

She was curious. "Why not?"

"I just don't," he replied.

She didn't press the matter. "This is a good thing, Greg," she said. "If we catch him, then the killings will stop. You can start being yourself again."

"I'm trying to do that anyway," he told her with a weak smile.

"And I love you for that," she said, with all her heart.

He laughed and rolled his eyes. "OK," he said.

She wondered if he believed her. Her breath caught in her throat and she reached out for him again, tentatively this time, slowly. He watched her warily as her hand found his, and his palm turned up to meet hers as they interlaced fingers. She watched their hands, then looked up at him, to see his eyes were still focused on the place they were touching.

"See this?" she asked him, making him look up. She gestured at their joined hands. "This is incredible."

His face twisted and he squirmed again and wrenched his hand from her grip, burying both hands under his arms, far away from anyone's touch. "I'm not as brave as you think I am," he replied.

And yet nevertheless, internally, her opinion of him skyrocketed.

* * *


	9. The Schwartz Brothers

_**Author's Note:**_ I had no idea what to name this chapter. Two more chapters and the story heats up again. Promise. Oh, and CSI Fan Fic awards are up on LJ. I might have mentioned that. Go check it out, some good stuff has been nominated. community.livejournal. com/csifanficawards/ (no space between . com)

* * *

Chapter Nine: The Schwartz Brothers 

It was obvious that Roger Schwartz was related to his brother, Harold, even though they acted drastically different. Roger's hair was brown and cropped while Harold's sandy hair was long and scraggly and looked like he hadn't washed it for days. Roger's nose was bent strangely, as though he had broken it at one point in his life and it had never quite healed right. His brown eyes were just as striking as his brother's blue ones. But other than these differences, they looked exactly the same. Same chin, same forehead, same build, even the very same height. Their postures were different. Roger stood tall and proud while Harold slouched, making himself look smaller than he really was. He was scratching his arms, his eyes darting to Roger and then to Brass across the table from them in the interrogation room.

"So?" Brass said after a long period of silence. "Would you care to explain where you were two nights ago, Mr. Schwartz?"

"In withdrawal," Roger replied for his brother, casting him a chastising look. "He was locked in his room all night listening to Slayer at obscene volumes." He sighed. "Look, my brother has severe problems, but we're taking care of them. Soon enough, he'll be clean."

"If he has such big problems, shouldn't he be in rehab?" Brass asked with a cock of his eyebrow.

"We don't believe in rehab," Roger said.

"I beg your pardon?" Brass asked.

"Do you know how easy it is for people to fake a recovery?" Roger asked. "Do you know how easy it is to get drugs in those places?"

"They drug test their patients until they can be trusted…" Brass said.

"Please," Roger scoffed. "Like experienced druggies don't know how to get around those."

Brass rolled his eyes. "Whatever. So how are you keeping him off the stuff?"

"I make all his meals," Roger said, and Harold nodded emphatically. "I've locked all the medicine cabinets, and the windows, and the door. I'm the only one with a key. He never goes anywhere without me."

"So how did he get over here last time?" Brass inquired.

Roger shot daggers at Harold, who shrank away in shame. "I left the door open before going to work," he said. "It was a stupid mistake."

Brass and Sara exchanged looks and Sara nodded. "He told us he got drugs from you," Sara said. "Amphetamines."

Roger laughed. "My brother has been on heroin since he was fifteen, OK? It's caused serious damage to his brain. He thinks a lot of things."

"It sounds to me like your brother may be better off hospitalized," Brass said. "Or do you not believe in hospitals either?"

"We believe in family," Roger returned coldly. "And I don't like your tone. Unless you want something from us, we're out of here."

"Is your brother ever lucid, Mr. Schwartz?" Sara asked.

"I am right now, bitch," Harold snapped at her like a dog barking at a stranger.

Roger smiled at him, almost approvingly. "He has his good days and his bad. Why?"

"Bonnie Hunter's computer records shows that he was maintaining an online relationship…" Sara pushed transcripts of the chats across the table to Roger, who beamed.

"Yes, I know," Roger said. "I encouraged it. Since he never left the house without me, I thought it would be good for his social skills."

"Do you monitor that activity?" Brass asked.

"Are you kidding?" Roger laughed. "That's his business, not mine."

"What if he's contacting drug dealers?" Sara returned.

"They have no way to get their goods to him," Roger said.

"Our house is a prison," Harold mumbled, still scratching his arms.

"Harry, you know it'll get better when you get off the withdrawal. This is only for now," Roger said. "If you'd just done well in the rehabs in the first place—"

"So he has been to rehab," Brass assumed.

"How do you think I know so much about them and how corrupt they are?" Roger returned. "Harold's sick and they couldn't help him because there was too much temptation in those places. With me, there is no temptation."

"He drives me crazy," Harold muttered.

"This is one of his bad days," Roger explained with an apologetic smile. He looked at the papers in his hand and nodded. "Mm hm, this seems like Harold's style… I'm sure you've read this, Captain Brass. He has terrible spelling."

"He gave her to me…" Harold whispered.

"What was that?" Brass asked.

"He gave her to me, she's _mine_," Harold hissed. "Bonnie is mine."

"Who gave her to you?" Brass probed.

"He never says," Roger answered as Harold scratched more fervently at his arms. "It's always just 'he.' 'He' gives Harold things all the time."

"And did… _he_ give you Lauren Johnson?" Brass asked, pushing a photograph of a happy young black girl across the table.

Harold sniffed and looked fleetingly at the picture before looking away again. "She's my friend," he said quietly. "She's mine too."

"Are you charging him with something?" Roger asked, suddenly angry. "Because _you_ said you just wanted to _talk_. Do I need to get a lawyer?"

"Are you _sure_ he was in his room all night two nights ago?" Sara interjected.

"Yes!" Roger exclaimed. "Yes, he was there when he slammed the door at seven and I heard the music all night! I checked in on him before going to sleep at one, and he was still there, lights on, on the internet!"

"Are you my friend?" Harold asked sweetly as he smiled up at Sara.

"OK, that's enough," Brass snapped defensively, making Harold look away from Sara like a scolded puppy. "Your brother knew Lauren Johnson and Bonnie Hunter, those are two murdered and raped women, that makes him a very, _very_ interesting suspect."

"OK!" Roger cried. "So he knew Bonnie Hunter, he _never_ knew this Lauren person!"

"He just said he did," Sara pointed out.

"I do," Harold said eagerly. "She lives in my cupboard."

"He thinks _fairies_ live in his cupboard," Roger said, rolling his eyes. "Look, this is entrapment! You show him a picture of Kate Moss and he'll tell you he knows her personally! Now if you want to talk to us about anything else, you'll need to wait until we get a lawyer!"

"Can we have a DNA sample?" Sara asked. "And a hair sample?"

"Not a chance," Roger snapped furiously.

"Look," Brass said. "If he really is innocent, then it'll clear him, won't it? I mean, Bonnie Hunter _was_ found dead on his property."

"_Our_ property," Roger corrected. "That house has been in our family for three generations. We never _use_ it. Someone must have broken in."

"Broken into _your_ house and killed _your brother's_ girlfriend? Isn't that a little too coincidental?" Brass pointed out.

"I want my lawyer," Roger said defiantly.

* * *

Catherine was in the lounge, staring blankly ahead of her at the television, which wasn't turned on. Grissom entered and opened the fridge, scrounging around. He looked over his shoulder at Catherine, who didn't even acknowledge him. 

"How long do you think this burrito has been in here?" he asked.

"I think Greg was still a lab rat," Catherine replied dully, then sipped her coffee again. "He's come a long way since then, hasn't he?"

"Er… yeah…" Grissom said, head in the fridge again as he searched for something edible. He stopped, seeming to detect that something was wrong with Catherine and stood up, closing the fridge. "Weren't you in the same position two hours ago?"

"Has it been two hours?" she asked, sounding far away.

He frowned and approached her. "What's the matter, Catherine?" he asked sternly. "Are you bored?"

"I'm troubled," she returned, turning to look at him for the first time. Her gaze was piercing, almost angry.

"About…?"

"Greg," she explained.

"Ah," Grissom said. "Of course you are."

"Of course I am," Catherine repeated. "Of _course_ I am, Grissom— You have no idea the kinds of scenarios that run around in my brain when I don't know what's going on, and with Warrick putting ideas into my head it doesn't help. He said something to me a few days ago and I just can't get it out of my head now! I mean, every scenario I come up with is just worse and worse and then I just want to kill myself, so… So you _need_ to tell me. What _really_ happened to Greg, before I slit my wrists!"

In his usual Grissom fashion, he met this remark with utter silence as he stared at the silent TV as she had done. But whereas her mind had been far away, his seemed focused, as if he was trying to telekinetically blow up the TV. She watched him for a long time, and after a few minutes, she knew he wouldn't answer.

"Don't make me guess," she said at last. "Because I will. And you won't like some of the things I say."

"Guess then," he replied. "I'm not going to say anything."

"Grissom—"

"If you want to know, ask him," Grissom returned.

"I've _tried_," Catherine snapped. "Or at least Nick has. Not a word, he claims he doesn't know any more than _we_ do! Is that true?"

"Don't put me in this position," Grissom said with a sigh and he walked away from her again.

"Don't you dare walk away from me, Grissom!" Catherine yelled, jumping to her feet. "Do you know what's worse than the truth? _Rumors_. And you know what, Gil? They're circulating. You don't want to hear some of the things they whisper. Some people think Greg was actually _involved_ somehow, or that he slit his _own_ throat, or that he knows the killer, or that…" She trailed off, the words catching in her throat as she choked on them. The very thought of speaking them aloud as Warrick had done made her nauseous. It had been alright, when she had spoke them in relation to herself, when she had suspected, when she had confided in Sara. But she could handle that much better. It made more sense when she'd thought it had happened to her. She could deal with that. But in relation to Greg… Catherine would falter, she would fail, and she couldn't think of it, wouldn't think of it. Because she couldn't protect him. "Grissom, I've heard some really bad things."

He leaned on the table upon which the coffee maker rested and hung his head low. "I bet you have, Catherine. And I expect you dispel all of them when you hear them, too. Tell everyone that they're not true."

"Of course!" she said. "I mean, Warrick thought he was abducted by aliens and you and Sara are in league with the FBI to keep it under wraps! He was just being silly, but this morning Mandy told me that she'd heard there were UFOs involved and—"

"I thought I just assigned you a new case three days ago," Grissom said, his voice quiet.

She hesitated. "You did," she said. "I'm still waiting on results."

Brass sauntered into the lounge at that moment looking tired, breaking the tension in the room just with his presence. He stopped when he saw Grissom.

"He's lawyered up," Brass said to Grissom.

"Of course he has," Grissom replied.

"We couldn't hold him," Brass explained. "He technically has an alibi. And he's mentally unstable. And Sara maintains you have to be lucid to commit these crimes, you need forethought and his mood changes by the second—"

"Jim," Grissom said sternly.

Brass seemed exhausted and sighed. "What?"

Grissom looked over at Catherine and Brass followed his gaze. He closed his eyes, realizing his mistake, and then opened them and smiled at her. "Hello, Catherine, how is that homicide on Mason?"

Catherine got the hint, and rose to her feet, glaring at Grissom. "It's only a matter of time before we figure it out, Gil," she said to him. "Because Warrick's right. There's really only one thing that makes sense, isn't there?" And with those ominous words, she bid goodbye to Brass and left, leaving the two men alone.

When she was gone, Brass turned to Grissom. "Do you really think this is the best way to go about this?" he asked. "All this secrecy? It's only inciting curiosity and speculation."

"It's what Greg wants," Grissom said. "And I can't blame him. If he had it his way, we wouldn't be investigating at all."

Brass was shaking his head. "We're in uncharted waters here, Grissom. Rape, homicide, unusual means of torture, repulsive acts of violence… I mean, it's not like we haven't seen worse, but…"

"But it's always been somebody else…" Grissom finished. "Never us."

Brass sighed, noting the plural. When a member of his team was injured or in danger, Grissom always, almost empathically, felt as if it was a personal blow to him as well. He used the plural when he was talking about his team, and often times even in every day conversation, he would slip from "they" to "we" or "him" to "us." But particularly in times of strife. That's when Grissom really felt connected to his team. They were his family.

"Right," Brass said at last. "And I hope I'm not the only one here who… doesn't know how to act around him."

"No, you're not," Grissom said. "I haven't even spoken to him since the hospital. It's… difficult. Sara scolds me for running, but I see the hesitation in her too. She tries hard not to admit it, though. She doesn't want to be afraid of him."

"What do you say?" Brass asked. "To a guy who's… been through what he has?"

Grissom smiled morosely. "If I knew that, Jim, I wouldn't be afraid to talk to him, would I?"

* * *


	10. The Other Dr Evans

_**Author's Note:**_ So I had a funny little snafu today. In editing my new one shot "Defying the Devil" I accidentally posted this chapter. So some of you, if you saw that story within the hour period I neglected to fix it, may have already read this chapter. LOL!

Yay, we're almost to one of my favorite parts! Next chapter. OK, so folks, you may not have noticed, but this story his laced with subtle foreshadowing in earlier chapters, and in this chapter, and in later chapters. So... be thinking on your feet, you may be able to predict what's going to happen next. Probably not though. It's REALLY subtle.

* * *

Chapter Ten: The Other Dr. Evans

Greg looked at the name on the card, then up at the person sitting across from him in an arm chair, peering at him expectantly over the rims of his square glasses.

"Dr. Evans…" he began.

"Please, call me John," the doctor replied.

Greg's bottom lip contorted into a thoughtful frown before he accepted this. "John, I've never… done this sort of thing before."

"Then let's start with why you're here," John said, leaning back in his chair and eying Greg with deep brown eyes.

"Your wife," Greg returned.

He laughed. "I know she recommended you," John said. "But that's not _why_ you're here, is it?"

"You know you two wear the same kind of glasses?" Greg asked. "It's kind of romantic. Or something. I don't really know, it's weird."

John reached up and took off his glasses. "If you want, I don't have to wear them. They're just reading glasses, and I'm not taking any notes."

"Whatever's good for you," Greg replied. "I don't really care, I was just making an observation…" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't like this."

"Few people do," John admitted. "Coming in here, telling a perfect stranger things you're afraid to tell your friends and family… But then, sometimes a stranger is exactly what we need, isn't it, Greg? Someone whose judgment doesn't really matter to us."

"Did Dr. Evans…" Greg began, then frowned again, "I mean, your wife, did she tell you… what's wrong with me?"

John looked conflicted. "I think that's a poor choice of words, Greg, I don't think anything is necessarily _wrong_ with you—"

"Did she tell you what happened to me?" Greg clarified.

Slowly, John nodded. "Riza did mention a… sexual attack of some sort…"

"Right," Greg said. "So I don't really need to tell you much, do I?"

To Greg's surprise, John laughed. "Is that all there is to know about you?" he asked. "I bet there's a whole life story beyond that one night, Greg. I bet you've had birthdays, graduations, maybe weddings… That's not all there is to you, is there? You have a novel to dictate to me, Greg. You're the writer. Think of me as the English professor who interprets your work of art."

"I don't think I want anyone interpreting me," Greg said, nervously.

John nodded. "Maybe 'interpret' was too strong of a word. What I meant was… I can help you be yourself again. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"How do you know what I want?" Greg asked suspiciously.

"I don't," John admitted. "Not unless you tell me. We still haven't gotten around to why you're here."

"I'm here because of what happened to me," Greg replied.

"No you're not," John said. "I mean, of course, that's the underlying cause, but something _made_ you come here today. Riza only recommended me, she didn't prescribe me like a medicine. You didn't have to come."

"It's my friends," Greg explained, almost reluctantly. "They aren't… the same."

"What you went through can be a very life-altering experience, Greg," John said.

"But it's not me, it's _them_," Greg insisted. "Or… or maybe it's me… I don't really know anymore…" He trailed off, then looked at John, and wanted desperately to tell him he wasn't always like this. "I used to be… better. More naïve, I guess, I don't know. They say ignorance is bliss, and let me tell you from experience, that it is _heaven_, but you don't even know it, because, well, you're ignorant. My job… I used to work in a lab all day, and it gave me the freedom to be whoever I wanted because it was _my lab_. I was God in that lab. I could play whatever music I wanted at whatever volume, slack off while waiting for results, make long-distance calls on the government's dime… It was like a kid in a playpen, you know? So long as I had my toys, I didn't care about anything else. But then the world just got so… small. I was watching the others come in and out, sometimes covered in dirt or sweat or worse, and I couldn't help but think what adventures they were having out there in the big wide world, in the world that didn't smell like ammonia, where you actually saw the crime scenes, where you actually _helped_ people…"

He shook his head. "But I was too idealistic. Because you don't help people. You can't, really, because they're dead, I mean. You avenge them, though. You make sure whoever hurt them goes down, and big time. But you can't right the wrong that was done to them with that. Dead people tend to stay that way. And…" He was nervous. "And I was just wondering if it's kind of the same with me," he said, as if this question had been on his mind for weeks. "I was just wondering if… if it's like this with girls, and if… If justice really matters because… Because honestly, I don't care if they catch him or not, and I don't know why. So what I'm asking, Dr. Evans— John— what I'm asking is… Will I stay dead?"

John was absolutely impossible to read but he looked thoughtful. "It's different for every person, Greg," he said. "But inevitably, I think that decision is up to you."

"I was afraid of that," Greg said, looking away.

"Don't underestimate yourself, Greg," John told him. "Coming here, for example, was a big step."

Greg was shaking his head. "I don't… _want_ to be this person…" he said. "I'm angry all the time, and I'm constantly sleep deprived, and I take it out on Sara and I _know_ she just wants to help, but…" He sighed. "I want to go back," he said. "To the lab. But I mean… I don't. Because I like being a CSI, but I just…" He rubbed his arms, hugging himself tightly. This was intensely awkward. He felt so many things. Strange, unsure of himself, humiliated, emasculated and utterly lost. "I just want to feel… safe," he admitted at last. It was the first time he had said the words aloud, even to himself.

John nodded. "I'm sure you do, Greg," he said. "Many people who have gone through what you went through—"

"You're a psychiatrist," Greg interrupted. "So I'm guessing you deal with women in my position all the time. Do you get any guys?"

John hesitated. "To be honest, you are my first…" he said slowly. "But that doesn't mean you're the only one, Greg."

"I know," he said with a sigh. But it didn't stop him from feeling any less isolated. "So when you talk to these girls, you tell them… what?"

"That they should get an activity," John said. "Something they have never done before, something brand new, maybe pick up a sport like handball or hiking, something physically exerting is the best thing. And then I tell them to master it. Because it becomes something they enjoy, and something they can escape to, and it's also something they've conquered. It empowers them."

"You want to empower me," Greg noted.

"How are you feeling right now?" John asked.

"Not empowered," Greg returned.

John smiled. "You always so sarcastic?"

"Mm," Greg muttered. "Not really. It's sort of a mix between the old me and the new me. My attempt at making my bitterness comical. The result is sarcasm."

"You're very astute, you know," John said.

"Lately, I've just had myself for company," Greg replied with a shrug. "It gives you a lot to think about." He paused. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"If you want," John said, leaning back in his chair.

"Have you ever thought…" Greg paused. "I mean, about… if it could happen to you?"

John blinked at him. "No, not really, to be honest," he said.

Greg looked down at his knees. "Me neither," he said. "I mean, before, I never thought it was a threat. I thought… You know, if an assailant attacked, I'd fight, I'd kick his ass, I mean, I'm armed, I'm trained, I'm…" He licked his chapped lips. "Last year I was attacked too," he said. "It was different though. There were… a lot of them, and they were everywhere, I couldn't anticipate… That was bad enough, but when _he_ pushed me to the ground, and when he started…"

He only realized that he was describing it when his heart leapt up into his throat, as if protesting the telling of his story. It made him stop. John waited a moment.

"You know, Greg," John said after a while. "I encourage you to talk about it eventually. Up until now, you've avoided describing the actual event. You've even avoided naming it. I think this is a good step. But Rome wasn't built in a day. If you don't want to talk about it yet, we can wait. Take your time."

Greg looked up, almost surprised. Talking to John was different from talking to his friends. If he had began describing what happened to him to Grissom or Sara, they would have snapped to attention immediately and pushed him to go on, eager to know, eager to understand what the problem was because then they could fix it. But Greg felt it wasn't their problem to fix. It was his. And John seemed to see that too.

It wasn't that Grissom and Sara didn't respect his wishes not to talk about it, because other than the hospital, neither of them had asked him any questions about it at all. Then again, he hadn't spoken to Grissom about anything since the hospital. And while Sara had been nothing but gentle to him, he still felt a sort of estrangement from her. And yet, here was this perfect stranger, and for no reason he could think of he was spilling his guts to him.

He wondered how long this new honesty would last. So it was more out of curiosity than an actual want to continue that he did. He had opened the floodgates after all. "When he pushed me… down…" Greg continued slowly, as if swimming against molasses. "His boot was on my back. Now if he hadn't torn up my shirt we might have gotten a fairly good print from his boot, but as the case was… he did. And I was struggling, but he was just… too _strong_ and he had knocked the wind out of me when he pushed me down, so I couldn't breathe right, and then he tied my hands, and he gagged me and he… reached for the hem of my jeans…" Greg tensed, the event flashing back to him, but he forced it away. "I can't do this," he said at last, shaking his head.

"That's OK," John said. "You don't have to right now."

"I've never… told anyone…"

"Then we've made major progress today," John said with a smile. He looked at his watch and seemed genuinely disappointed. "Dammit. It's already two o'clock." He looked up at Greg. "I would love to discuss this at length with you, Greg, I think you could benefit from it, but as it is I have an appointment and—"

"Save the false sympathy," Greg said with a weak smile as he rose to his feet. "I get it, this is a business. Not a problem, I'm not offended."

He made for the door. "I meant to tell you…" John said slowly, making Greg turn to look at him. "Riza asked me something."

"What is it?"

"To do this as a favor to her," he replied. "If you came in to see me, that is."

Greg frowned. "What's that mean?"

"It means you won't be charged," John replied. "It's pro bono."

Greg laughed. "No. Dr. Evans is a great person, but I can't allow her to—"

"Your insurance won't cover it," John explained. "Riza checked when she was going over your information."

Greg didn't believe that. "That's ridiculous, this is technically a job related injury, my insurance should—"

Dr. Evans was shaking his head. "Your job insurance plan is bad," he said. "Lucky for you, Riza has taken a shine to you. She seems to be very invested in your health. She wants you to get better. I'm not sure why. But if it means that much to Riza, then it means that much to me." He smiled, and Greg knew it to be a smile of genuine good will.

"You must love her a lot," Greg said. "I'm such a nutcase, you could have put your kids through college with me alone."

Dr. Evans laughed. "Maybe," he said. "But it'll make Riza happy to know you're doing OK."

"And that's all you care about?" Greg asked.

"That's all I care about."

Greg rolled his eyes. "You guys are too much," he said before leaving swiftly.

John grinned.

* * *

The weeks went on and almost nothing changed. Sara and Grissom were at a dead end. They had processed all their evidence and followed all their leads. At first, they had refused to give up on Harold Schwartz and called him and his brother in for questioning again. A criminal psychologist was brought in to determine whether or not Harold was capable of the crimes he was being accused of, but inevitably the psychologist had explained that it was impossible. Harold's thoughts were too scattered, and showed signs of paranoia. More than that, he believed that Bonnie was still alive and just ignoring him, because she was never online anymore to talk to him. No matter how many times someone tried to tell him that Bonnie was dead, he would refuse to believe it and call them a liar. And then he would forget about the conversation altogether and just ask where Bonnie was again. 

"I've never seen heroin do this much damage to a person," the psychologist had said to Brass. "My guess is there was an underlying personality disorder before the drugs that was only exacerbated by it, to the point where it's impossible to distinguish the original problem from the ones brought on by the drugs. He also admits to mixing, and using unknown substances, which can do a world of unknown damage to the brain. The crimes are far too meticulous to have been executed by him."

Their evidence was at a standstill. While Harold's hair sample had visually matched the one collected from Greg's vest, with no DNA evidence to compare him to, it wasn't solid enough evidence. The DA insisted on something more if they wanted a conviction because at the moment everything was purely circumstantial and that would get nowhere in court. So as much as Sara and Hodges both tried, examining and reexamining the evidence, neither of them could come up with anything more than they already had. They had exhausted their resources and their only suspect had an alibi, not to mention a sanctioned psychologist claiming he was unfit to commit those crimes.

So Grissom had reluctantly put Sara on another case for the time being, hoping that maybe if they just let the case rest for a while, something would jump out at them later.

But as the weeks went on, nothing did. And after six weeks since his last attack, Sara wondered if he would ever rape and kill again. A part of her dreaded the thought of another body, and another part of her almost wanted it, so maybe they would have more evidence. But for the most part, she was glad that the killer had apparently retreated back into obscurity and everyday she dwelled on it less and less.

Greg was making little progress, though he admitted to Sara that he was seeing the psychiatrist recommended to him by Dr. Evans. He been working for about a week and was doing rather well. He was walking alright again, and the scar on his neck was still visible, but fading. Healing.

Nick, Warrick and Catherine, to the best of Sara's knowledge, had dropped the issue and ignored it completely, though none of them were on very good terms with the rest of the CSI graveyard shift. Sara saw the worried glances Catherine would cast Greg's way every once in a while, but she never approached him, or discussed much with him that wasn't small talk. Sara sometimes overheard her arguing with Grissom, hinting that she had guessed what had really happened, but never outright saying it, and Sara wondered if she was baiting Grissom. Sara doubted Catherine really knew. She was only pretending to know so Grissom would tell her. Or at least, that's what Sara told herself. She'd rather Catherine hadn't guessed, although she felt it was almost underestimating her. Catherine was clever, and Catherine was maternal, and the lab was her second home, this team her second family, but just as important as her first family. She detected inherently that something was very wrong with Greg. Perhaps she had put it together after all.

Warrick was civil to everyone, but nothing more. He treated Greg a little better than the rest of them though, and once he had even outright told Sara what was on his mind, albeit reluctantly.

"What happened to Greg…" Sara never liked that beginning because it meant she would have to lie. "Was it anything to do with what happened to the two other victims? How they were… you know."

Sara had simply told him that she couldn't discuss the case with him and left the room as quickly as possible.

Nick was very cold towards Greg, but almost reluctantly so. He badly wanted to know what had really happened that night and, God bless him, he seemed to be the only one whose mind hadn't even contemplated the truth. Still, he seemed angry with Greg, and concerned for him simultaneously. Sometimes, he would treat Greg like he always had, playfully teasing him, joking around and such, in hopes of maybe regaining his confidence or bringing a smile to his face.

But Greg wasn't talking to any of them. Ever since she had taken his hand in the lounge, he seemed to grow even more distant to her. But he did his job efficiently and effectively. And he still made jokes that made her smile. But if she wanted to tell him how the case was going (or how it wasn't going), he would always change the subject. "No more serious conversations," he had told her. So she had agreed.

And so it was that everyone pretended that nothing was wrong.

And Sara wondered if they would ever really be a family again.

But she never voiced these thoughts.

* * *


	11. Nineteen Candles

_**Author's Note:**_ This chapter was oodles of fun to write, and I got another fun one come up next. Please review, folks. Though I know no matter how much I ask, those of you who don't review just don't review. Anyways, thanks to those who do. :o)

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Nineteen Candles 

Greg was walking swiftly past the trace lab when he was finally busted.

"Sanders!"

He flinched and stopped, turning around and forcing a smile at Hodges, who was looking at him with wide brown eyes. "Hey… Hodges… What's up?"

"You're giving your trace evidence to Wendy to process," Hodges said flatly. "That's stupid. And annoying. Because she keeps coming into _my lab_. Just give it to me, I can do it."

Greg tried to hide his anxiety. "I don't know, Hodges, I know you're handling all the evidence from the case Grissom and Sara are working on, I just thought you'd maybe like a break or something. And besides, Wendy complains you use her lab all the time without asking anyway, so…"

"Like I said, that's stupid," Hodges said, pushing some papers into Greg's hands. "Because Wendy doesn't know jack about trace. I know what I'm looking for. I know what's important. Here are your results for the trace evidence you gave her last week. She hadn't gotten around to it because I refused to let her in my lab, so I did it for you. Next time, just give it to me, OK? I can handle it."

"So Wendy doesn't know anything about trace, but you know everything about DNA?" Greg asked with a cock of his eyebrow.

Hodges' scoffed. "Please," he said. "A monkey could run DNA. Hell, _you_ did it, didn't you? A monkey could do it _better_. All you do is run some electrophoresis labs, or enzyme tests, it's all about cause and effect. You push the right button and mix the right chemicals and you get your answer, lickity split. Trace, you have to know what you're looking at, and looking for. It's not always so straightforward."

Greg frowned, indignantly, then pouted. "I'm smarter than a monkey," he muttered.

"Not by much," Hodges said. "So. Trace goes to me, DNA goes to the Ape Queen, are we clear?"

Slowly, Greg nodded and Hodges gave him a curt nod himself before turning around and heading back into the trace lab without another word. Greg watched him curiously, feeling strangely more at ease than he did with any of his other friends. He hesitated before making his decision and ducked into the lab, following Hodges.

"Do you want to maybe… get a drink or something after work?" he asked.

Hodges stopped and looked up at him. "I don't think I'm your type," he said.

Greg laughed, as if he should have known better and rolled his eyes, nodding. "Right," he said. "We don't… do that, do we?"

"No," Hodges said. "We don't."

Greg nodded, his eyes looking at the corner of the room. He took a deep breath. "Well… I'll see you around then." He headed towards the door than turned and smiled. "Trace goes to you," he said, pointing at him.

Hodges nodded slowly. "DNA to Wendy. Prints to Mandy, AV to Archie, ballistics to Bobby—"

"I got it," Greg interrupted. "Thanks."

And with that, he left, with Hodges' eyes boring holes in Greg's back.

* * *

It was their nineteenth anniversary. One short of twenty. John had planned a surprise for her and asked her to come home early. Back when she was Riza Stenbacka, she had met the bumbling John Evans on the cathedral-like steps of Suzullo Library at the University of Washington where they had both been attending school. Upon seeing her, he somehow managed to drop all of his books. She smiled kindly at him and helped him gather them up. In doing so, she discovered one for a human rights course and another in biology. Riza had never believed in love at first sight, but she'd had a long and passionate love affair with human rights books and the issues they discussed, and a part of her did fall in love with John at that precise moment. 

Since they had married young, their families had been skeptical that it wouldn't last. But they were kindred spirits from the day they met, and each of them was so busy with their medical degrees that neither of them really had time for anyone else. Nor did anyone else have the energy or the patience to listen to Riza ramble on about human rights violations in Uganda. They had bonded immensely in a short time frame because of their shared interests. John was interested in trauma and the maladies of the mind, and meanwhile she was interested in what hurt the body. Both of them were interested in going overseas and helping people in need. They had talked about it since they were young, and had already done a tour in Sudan with _Médecins Sans Frontières_ and had wanted to do it again ever since, but their jobs got in the way.

Still, Riza was excited to be going home next year, or to South Africa, which was the closest thing to home she had. She couldn't wait to share that with John. She knew he would enjoy it as much as she did.

Grinning and with thoughts of South Africa swirling around in her mind, Riza fished out her keys and opened the door to the apartment she shared with her husband of nineteen years. One short of twenty.

_Heaven. I'm in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…_

She leaned against the door, breathless. Frank Sinatra, and their song no less. She wondered if he just had good timing or if the track was on repeat. The scent of roast duck wafted into her nostrils, and there were rose petals which led from the door down the hall, towards their bedroom.

"John?" she called playfully. "Are you hiding from me on purpose?"

He didn't reply and she took this to mean yes. She followed the trail of rose petals eagerly, stepping lightly. She made a game of not stepping on them directly, because for some reason she didn't want to crush them. It was like the game she had played as child. _Don't step on the cracks or you'll break your mother's back_. She saw two glasses of champagne already poured on the dining room table, the champagne itself chilling in a bucket of ice. The table was covered in a pristine white table cloth and scattered with still more rose petals. She wondered vaguely how many flowers had given their lives so John could plan this romantic evening for his wife of nineteen years. One short of twenty.

_Heaven. I'm in heaven. And the cares that hung around me through the week seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak. When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek… _

She took her champagne glass and moved on down the hall, following the trail her husband had left for her for their nineteenth anniversary. She turned a corner and faced the bedroom door, which was ajar. She could see candles flickering inside, and the corner of the bed was in view. She placed a delicate hand on the door and slowly pushed it back, forcing herself not to run in there and kiss him. He had done this all for her, and she needed to appreciate that. She would make it last as long as she possibly could.

"John…?" she called again, grinning. "I know you're in there."

_Dance with me, I want my arm about you. That charm about you will carry me through… _

The door slowly opened, revealing more of the bed, and then she saw his foot, and his leg and his…

The smile vanished from her face and the champagne glass fell to the floor with a clatter. Her heart was beating rapidly and she began to feel dizzy. Her throat closed. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. All she could do was stare.

John was lying on the bed as she had expected, or at least she thought it was John and yet prayed that it wasn't because he had no head. He was displayed on the bed, completely naked, as if he had been lying there, waiting for her. Except he had no head. He had no head. This didn't make any sense. The synapses were firing but they weren't connecting. Of course he had a head. She just couldn't see it.

_Then why is he bleeding?_ She asked herself.

He had… no head. None. Blood was everywhere, staining the sheets and the rose petals, and worst of all was the note that was scrawled in her husband's blood on the wall above the bed.

_That charm about you it will carry me through right up to heaven. I'm in heaven… _

She couldn't move, but she couldn't stay there or she would go mad. In seconds she had fallen from heaven and descended into the darkest depths of hell and she was without anyway home again. Because she was only at home with him.

_And I've seemed to find the happiness I seek when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek…_

Her knees buckled and she clung to the doorframe as though it were her last lifeline as she slowly slid to the floor, her knees landing in the broken glass of the champagne bottle.

The message, that message… She had to call the police. She needed to tell someone. But she couldn't move. And she couldn't speak. Her chest heaved up and down and she began to hyperventilate but she didn't care. She was scared, and she was alone, all alone, and she had to navigate the abyss alone. She would never get out alive.

There were no tears. Her eyes were dry. But she sobbed, and sobbed, but her eyes refused to cry. He had no head. He _had_ no _head_. But it was impossible. Who would _do_ that do another human being?

The nearest phone was beside the bed and off the hook. She had to get to it. She had to call. For him. This carnage needed to be cleaned up. It needed to be examined. Avenged. He would pay. For everything he had done.

And so with sheer strength of will, still gasping for air, she crawled across the floor on her hands and knees beside the bed. She reached up to the bedside table and pulled the phone down, dialing with shaking fingers. It took great effort to push three buttons.

"911 what is your emergency?"

She opened her mouth to reply but she had suddenly forgotten English. She had been fluent in English ever since she was eight years old and she had suddenly forgotten the language. She was a little girl again, and the only words she could grasp were in Swedish. She tried to tell him. She said, _Help, I need help_. Her voice was tiny and breathless.

"I'm sorry ma'am, I don't understand."

She swallowed. She should try her name. "Riza Stenbacka." But no, that wasn't right. She had to think. "Riza _Evans_," she corrected. She continued in Sweedish. _My husband_, she said. _My husband's head has been stolen!_

"Ma'am I don't know what language you're speaking, do you speak English?"

"Ya!" Riza exclaimed. And then she found her words again. "Ya, er… yes. I'm… My husband is…" She trembled and then the tears stung her eyes because she was saying the words she did not want to say. "He has no head…"

"He's been decapitated?"

"Y-yes…" Riza said, feeling the tears streak down her cheek. "Yes, he's dead…"

"Where are you, ma'am?"

"Fremont street," she replied. "Building 218, apartment 20… Please… come fast… he shouldn't look this way, he has no _head_…"

"Your name, ma'am?"

"Doctor Riza Stenbacka-Evans," she said as clearly as she could, but her voice still trembled and her fingers closed tightly against the receiver as her chest was wracked with sobs, this debilitating grief making it impossible for her to say anything else.

"And what's your husband's name, ma'am?"

"John, but does it matter?" Riza gasped. "Just _come_. _Now_!"

"A unit has been dispatched ma'am, just stay where you are for now please."

She choked and looked up at the wall, at the message. "There's something else…" she said. "A message. Above my bed, it's in blood, it's…" She cut herself off with a sob. "Oh the dear boy…"

"What does it say, ma'am?" the operator asked.

She swallowed and tried to compose herself. "It says… It's about Greg Sanders, I _know_ it, who else…"

"What does it _say_, ma'am?" the operator repeated, a little more forcefully.

There were nineteen candles lit in John and Riza Evans' bedroom. A twentieth, unlit candle was rolling on the floor, out of Riza's sight. She would never see it, and this was probably for the best. All she saw were the nineteen lit candles. And all she could think was that it was only one short of twenty.

Riza stared at the wall in horror for a long time. Nineteen years. He had somehow known. He knew everything.

The operator broke into her thoughts again. "Ma'am, what does the message say?"

Her voice shook as she read it aloud to the 911 operator. "Happy Anniversary. Tell Greg I say hello."

* * *

By the time Grissom and Sara arrived on the scene, Riza's mascara had run clear down her cheeks. Her hair, normally clipped neatly behind her head, was coming out of its tight bun and looked frazzled and disorganized, giving her a mad air as she trembled there while answering Brass's questions, otherwise sounding calm. She caught sight of the two CSIs and her gaze wouldn't leave them. 

"Dr. Grissom…" she whispered, breathless.

Brass turned to see the person she was addressing and greeted both Grissom and Sara with a sad smile. "The scene is in the bedroom," he said.

Grissom approached Riza and put his hand on her cheek. She looked up at him, tears welling in her puffy, bloodshot eyes. They stared at each other a moment and then without warning, Riza flung her arms desperately around his neck and began weeping in earnest. He caught her as she fell forward and slowly knelt down to the ground as she continued to cry into his shoulder. She balled her hands into fists on his back, his shirt within her deadly clutches and she didn't want to ever let him go. All Grissom could do was stroke her back and whisper into her hair as Sara and Brass watched helplessly.

They didn't understand, but strangely Grissom did. Riza had just lost her best friend in the world, and he had been killed in her own home, which was supposed to be safe. And now, she was surrounded by dozens of people in uniforms, roaming through her house, searching through her things, and she was lost. And all she wanted was something familiar, something she recognized from her old life, and while Grissom may have only been her life for a few short hours, he was the only one there that she even remotely knew and she seized the opportunity, searching within him for her sanity which had shattered with the champagne glass on the floor of her bedroom.

"I'll go… begin processing," Sara said at last, and Grissom looked over at her and nodded.

"I'll catch up," he said.

"He has no head…" Riza whispered. "Greg…"

Sara looked at the broken women helplessly. She had never met Riza Evans before this moment, and therefore to her she was simply another victim. But the understanding that seemed to pass between Riza and Grissom did not go unnoticed to Sara. And Greg had been somewhat close to Riza as well, not to mention her husband, his psychiatrist. And this knowledge stirred something in her, something uncomfortable and unwanted, a mixture of sympathy and jealousy, of understanding and annoyance. She didn't like the feeling, and so was anxious to get away from the cause of it, namely Riza Evans.

She snapped photos of the hallway and the rose petals that littered it, officers tramping up and down the halls. She told them not to step on the roses, and they tried, but if the petals had told any story at all, it was all muddled up by now. She pushed open the door of the master bedroom and saw that the candles had burned down but were still flickering, even in a pool of melted wax. She saw David who looked up at her and nodded.

"He's been dead for about four to six hours now, maybe. Decapitated while alive… No head to be found… I'll let you process."

He ducked his head and left the room.  
Sara took some more photographs of the room and the message above the bed which she refused to admit sent chills down her spine. She put the camera down and began the meticulous process of searching it for evidence.

It was the stuff urban legends were made of and it chilled her to the bone. She had no idea how she was going to tell Greg what happened. This man was fixating on Greg and she didn't know why. Every crime was escalating, and now this one, with its ominous message in blood, and its personal atmosphere, was the worst one yet. She could only imagine what the next crime would be like, and hoped it wouldn't be another attack on Greg. She decided to tell Brass to put some cops on him.

There was a thick, bloody candle rolling on the floor and she hated to imagine its use. She rolled the body onto its side and saw that John Evans had also been sexually assaulted, and her face twisted in revulsion as her body tensed. She let the body fall onto its back again and then stopped when she saw a sticky whit substance staining the sheets.

Ejaculate.

Her heart leapt into her throat. DNA. All the other victims had been raped with a foreign object, leading Grissom and Sara to conclude that it had never been about sex at all but more about humiliation and torture, but here was ejaculate. Then what of the candlestick? Had he raped John Evans with the candle stick and then masturbated? That seemed to be a likely theory. He had been so careful with all his other scenes never to leave any DNA evidence behind, except for now. She tried hard to be objective, but internally she hoped it matched Harold Schwartz's DNA. Because if it didn't, they were back at square one again, and it meant they had been barking up the completely wrong tree. They would have absolutely no more leads. And that terrified her. Because she had no idea what he was going to do next.

Just as she was finishing up, and Grissom had yet to join her, her cell phone began to ring…

* * *


	12. Frozen

_**Author's Note:**_ This chapter was originally about four pages longer, but I felt that was too long (I know you hate me). So I cut it off at probably the most intense point, which means be ready for another cliffhanger. But I promise I'll have the next chapter up in twenty-four hours. I got a few first-time reviewers yesterday! This chapter's for you. :o)

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Frozen  


After work, Greg returned home to his empty apartment and exhaled a long sigh of relief. He had been developing a headache all day and all he wanted was a glass of merlot. Or whiskey. He was more in the mood for a shot of whiskey. He could already taste it. He had taken to having a drink after work these days. The tension and unrest he felt when trying to sleep had spread to the rest of his day and a glass of wine didn't just help him sleep, it helped him relax in general.

He made a beeline for his kitchen and opened the cabinet by the fridge, pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker and pouring himself a quick shot before downing it. He closed his eyes and savored the bitter taste as the alcohol slid down his throat, setting him on fire and warming him up instantly. The liquor itself needed to be chilled though. He looked at his empty glass a moment before heading for his fridge.

He opened the fridge door first, looking around for something snackable that would work with his own personal cocktail hour. All he could find was some grapes, which was fine enough for him, so he pulled them out and started whistling.

And then he opened the freezer.

He closed the freezer.

He paused.

He took a deep breath.

He opened the freezer again.

He stared at the its contents for a moment, the cool, rancid air that escaped from it freezing his blood. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as his heart fluttered like a humming bird and his whole body went cold. He opened his eyes again, hoping the monstrosity had maybe vanished, but it was still there. He slowly stepped away from the site and backed up against the counter that was opposite the fridge. White fog from the freezer spilled out into the air like a ghostly waterfall, and Greg swore the temperature in the whole room dropped to below zero because he was shivering like crazy. His stomach tied itself into knots and he wrapped his arm around it and tried to control his breathing, his eyes focused on his freezer, his mind reeling.

The nausea mixed with the shot of whiskey he had previously consumed on an empty stomach proved to be too much for him and he felt the vomit rise in the back his throat. He couldn't hold it back this time but his hands flew to his mouth to try. He moved quickly to the sink before he wretched and the whiskey and fears and stomach acids and guilt came pouring out into his sink. When it was done, he stayed there, hovering over the sink, his shaking arms clutching the counter for dear life. He looked back at his freezer and a desperate sob escaped his lips.

He took a few breaths, his ears tuned, listening for any unusual sound, anything to tell him that he wasn't alone, that there was someone else in his apartment, for now he was sure that there was.

His voice was raspy and dry. "Are you still here?"

There was no answer to his query. He turned around and leaned against the sink. Absently, he pulled out his cell phone before slowly sliding to the floor, looking across the kitchen at the still open freezer and its contents.

His breath trembling, he called the first number he could think of. It rang four times and then, an answer.

"Greg? I thought you went home early today."

"Thank God it wasn't any earlier," he replied, breathless.

She noticed. "What's wrong?"

He swallowed, his eyes on the fridge. "My shrink is dead, Sara."

She gasped. "Greg, how did you…?"

"His head is in my freezer," he said quickly. He forced the words out as quickly as possible, almost afraid he would throw up again.

"Greg, calm down," Sara said slowly. "Don't worry, Brass is here, OK, we're going to send some officers down to your apartment right now. Get out of the house."

"I can't move," he whispered.

"You _have_ to, Greg," Sara insisted, sounding terrified and on the brink of tears. "_Please_."

But his knees were weak. His muscles were locked. He had no control over his body. He was back in the desert. "I-I don't think he's still here."

"Well for God's sake, don't look for him!" Sara cried. "Get out of that apartment and wait for the cops, do you understand me?"

"There was a note," Greg whispered. "It was a yellow Post-It. I-it was on his f-forehead."

She paused. "What did it say?"

"'For the one that got away,'" Greg read aloud, his eyes glued to the head in his fridge. "Sara, it's not like I've never seen a human head not attached to its body before, but I—"

"You don't have to explain it to me, Greg, I understand," Sara said. "This guy is obviously targeting you. You aren't safe in that apartment. Leave. _Please_."

* * *

Over at the crime scene, Sara was walking back down the hall, not caring if she stepped on the petals now or not, until she found Grissom and Riza in much the same place she had left them, with Brass standing by the door talking to an officer. She walked right over to him. 

"Where do I go, Sara?" Greg asked on the phone.

"I don't care," she replied. "Outside, in public, just get out of there." She caught Brass's attention and he turned to look at her curiously. Her eyes tried to communicate what she wanted, but first she said to Greg, "I'm not hanging up until you get out of that apartment."

"What's wrong?" Brass was instantly on alert, catching Grissom's attention too on the floor.

Sara took a breath and covered the receiver. "Brass," she said. "Get some uniforms over to Greg's apartment _now_. We've found our head. It's in his freezer."

She heard a small whimper from Riza, and looked over at Grissom and the woman. Grissom was watching her intently as Brass immediately jumped on the task Sara had assigned him.

"I want a twenty-four hour guard on him," she said to Grissom, who simply nodded in agreement. Slowly, he pulled away from Riza and whispered something to her before pulling out his own phone.

"Sara?" Greg whispered on the phone.

"I'm here Greg," Sara said confidently, turning away from Grissom and Riza and heading out the door into the hallway where she could speak to him somewhat alone.

Greg's breath was shaking. "What does he _want_ from me?"

"I don't know, Greg," Sara replied helplessly, leaning against the wall of the apartment as she waited in the hall.

He was quiet a moment. "I just want this to be over…"

"I know," Sara whispered, hugging herself with her free arm. "Me too."

There was a pause. "There's a head in my freezer," Greg said. "I'm buying a new fridge. It'll be kind of hard to store my ice cream where a severed head used to be."

She laughed. "Can I come?"

"Sure," Greg said.

She heard the clinking of glass on glass. "What are you doing?"

"Pouring myself some whiskey," Greg said. "It was going to be on the rocks, but then the funniest thing happened, you see, there was this head in my freezer…"

"I thought I told you to get out of the house," Sara snapped, insistently.

He took a deep shuddering breath. "Oh don't be so bossy, Sara, I feel OK, now. I don't think he's here anymore."

"Well I don't feel OK," Sara said.

"So long as I'm on the phone with you, what can happen?" Greg asked.

"A lot can happen," Sara replied. "A lot that I can't do anything about."

"I think I'll just sit tight 'til the cops arrive," Greg said, and she heard him gulp down another shot.

"Don't have too much of that," Sara warned.

"I'll be good," Greg promised, though he sounded tired.

Grissom stepped out into the hall and looked at Sara. "I called Nick," he said. "He had a scene in Greg's neighborhood; he should be there in a few minutes along with Sofia and a few uniforms from that scene."

Sara nodded. "Greg?" she said into her phone.

"Hm?" Greg sounded groggy and far away.

"Nick is coming," Sara said.

"Noooo…" Greg sounded like he was beginning to get annoyed.

"Yes," Sara insisted. "I think it will be good for you."

"What do I tell him?" Greg asked. "Hi, Nick, have some whiskey, oh by the way there's a head in my fridge?"

"I don't _care_ what you _tell_ him," Sara said. "Look, just… just hold on, OK?"

He sighed, sounding irritated. "OK," he said. "Hey, listen, Sara, there's this weird noise coming from my bathroom, I'm going to go check it out. Talk to you later. Bye."

And before she could yell out, "You bastard!" he had hung up the phone.

* * *

Greg sat there in silence as he stared at the head of John Evans in his freezer, which stared right back at him. He held the phone in his hand, almost waiting for it to ring, waiting for Sara to call him back. 

But she didn't.

He was ninety percent sure that she knew he had made a tasteless joke. There was actually no sound coming from his bathroom, and he had no urge to go and investigate it either. But he didn't want to keep talking to her. She always made him nervous. Instead of calming his fears, she tended to elevate him, which only isolated him from her further. And now that his therapist was dead, he had no one to talk about this isolation with. This killer really knew how to make him feel alone.

Greg knew that was exactly what the psycho wanted, and although he refused to be controlled by this man, he couldn't help it. The killer was trying to scare him and it was working. The killer was trying to make him feel alone, and it was working. The killer was targeting his friends to make him uneasy. And it was working.

Greg shivered, not liking the fact that Dr. Evans was dead because of him, but loathing the thought that this guilt was exactly what the killer had meant to inspire in him. Was he nothing but this crazy man's marionette? Greg didn't like it when people pulled his strings. Greg didn't like to think he had strings to pull. But he was a slave to this faceless, nameless, voiceless puppet master, who was making Greg dance for the killer's amusement.

And then, there was a knock on the door, making him jolt out of his musings.

"Greg?! Greg, are you OK?"

Greg rolled his eyes and slowly got to his feet before heading to the door. "Keep your head on, Nick, I'm just tired."

He opened the door to see a very, very pale Nick, behind whom stood three officers plus Sofia, who looked fairly concerned herself. Nick immediately pushed the door back and stepped into Greg's apartment uninvited and looked around a little before he turned on Greg.

"That wasn't funny," he said.

"What wasn't funny?" Greg asked as Sofia and the officers filed in.

"That head joke," Nick said. "It wasn't funny."

"I wasn't trying to be… I didn't think," Greg explained. "I'm sorry." He smirked. "I guess you could say I lost my head."

"Shut up," Nick snapped coldly and headed for the kitchen, leaving Greg behind with Sofia as two of the officers went down the hall, searching the apartment, and the other headed after Nick.

"What happened exactly?" Sofia asked, detached, businesslike, normal.

"I came home," Greg began, "I went to the kitchen. Poured me some whiskey. Went to the freezer to get some ice and boom. My shrink's staring right back at me."

She nodded and made a note of it before looking up at Greg again. "Brass told me to get you out of here, to somewhere that's safe."

Greg shook his head. "I'm safe here, I don't think he'll be back any time soon."

"Well, still," Sofia insisted. "We'll have a guy at your door."

"I don't need to be babysat," Greg protested.

"That's my orders," Sofia replied. "You can either come with me to a more secure location or we're going to camp out here. Your choice."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine, stay. But I assure you your time will be better spent elsewhere."

It wasn't just his lack of control in the situation, or the fact that his personal life was being invaded. Greg had a very disturbed feeling about allowing the cops to look after him. It was almost like déjà vu, as if someone had planned this all out before, and he had already lived it and it had ended in disaster in some faraway dream, or perhaps another life.

Nick came back from the kitchen. "The head's in there," he said to Sofia. "Grissom can handle it when he gets here. It's his case anyway." He looked at Greg. "In the meantime, I was wondering if I could talk to this kid here. Alone."

"I'm afraid you can't," Sofia said.

"You have my word that he won't be hurt so long as I'm around," Nick said to Sofia. He turned back to Greg. "Unless I'm the one that hurts him."

She smiled grimly before nodding and the other two officers came back down the hall. "It's clear," they called to Sofia, as the third officer from the kitchen joined them.

"Good," she said. She turned to Nick and Greg. "We'll be right outside."

Nick nodded, but his eyes didn't leave Greg as Sofia and the cops made a quick exit. The two men were silent for a very long time. Nick's arms were folded and his dark stare was boring twin holes in Greg's skull. He looked intimidating, and frightening, the image of a man much larger, and much stronger than Greg was, and it made him the most uncomfortable he had ever been with his friend. He shifted awkwardly under Nick's scrutiny and turned away.

"Could you stop looking at me like that please?" he asked quietly. Even though his back was to Nick, he could still feel the Texan's eyes stabbing him in the back.

"I don't know what happened to you, Greg," Nick replied, his voice low and steady. "I don't listen to the rumors either. And I've tried to drop it. Really. But a severed head in your freezer… that's a threat if I ever saw one. And if there's anything I can do to help, I want to know—"

"Well you _can't_ help," Greg snapped, whirling around to face his friend again. A cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple and his heart was pounding against his ribcage as the adrenaline flooded his system. He wouldn't admit it consciously, but he was terrified of Nick. Because Nick was older, bigger, and stronger than him, and he was angry, and cold, and meticulous, and all of these adjectives described a man Greg would much rather forget.

Nick hesitated, his hard expression softening just slightly. "You don't know that," he said, for the first time sounding unsure of himself.

"But I do," Greg said, nearly laughing with hysterics. "I do know that, because not even _I_ can help it, alright? Not even Grissom and Sara can help it, and believe me they've been trying, but they _can't_, OK? The only person who was even _beginning_ to help it is dead and in my freezer."

"But if I knew—"

"If you knew, Nick, that is if you haven't pieced it together already," Greg added bitterly, "it would be ten times worse. You think you hate me now, you would hate me so much more. Worse than hate. You would be afraid of me. You'd be afraid of me like Grissom and Sara and Brass are all afraid of me, and I can't let that happen, Nick, because the only person who even treats me like a human being anymore is fucking David Hodges, OK?"

Nick was silent as he digested all of this information. "I could never hate you, Greg," he whispered at last. "Not even now. I just… don't understand why you can't trust me."

"I _do_ trust you," Greg said, sounding exasperated.

"Then why don't you believe me when I tell you whatever happened to you I can deal with it?" he returned.

"Because that's a promise you don't know you can keep," Greg replied. "It's like saying you could literally eat anything that's cooked and served to you on a silver platter and then when you get it, you realize it's fried cockroaches in shit. You can't _eat_ that, Nick, and I don't _want_ you to."

"Are you saying I have to eat shit and cockroaches to prove to you that I can handle it?" Nick asked. "Because while not something I am all excited about doing, I will do it if you make me. I _care_ about you Greg, and something has fucked you up, and it's scaring you, and it's scaring me, and I don't even know what it is. So just _tell_ me so I can at least know what I'm afraid of."

Greg was taking deep breaths. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked.

"If I did, would I be asking?" Nick replied, incredulously.

Greg shrugged. "I don't know, recently even Warrick and Catherine have been acting like they're afraid of me… But you haven't. You're just mad at me."

The last of Nick's hardened features softened and finally he was Nick again, and not some angry, strong antagonist. And Greg relaxed too. "I'm just worried about you, Greg," Nick told him.

"You haven't speculated," Greg asked. "You haven't thought…"

"It only makes things worse," Nick said, shaking his head. "And it's not fair to you."

Greg sat down on his couch and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling, slowly coming to a decision. "You've had a lot happen to you," Greg said casually. "Haven't you?"

Nick nodded and slowly approached him on the couch, standing in front of him. "You could say that," he replied.

"Like… when you were stalked…" Greg began. "And you found out that someone… _knew_ what you did when you thought you were alone, and you… I mean, what was that like? How did you feel?"

Nick sighed as he sat down next to Greg and watched him a moment. Greg's eyes remained on the ceiling. "Um… scared, I guess?" he said. "Like I had no privacy, um… disgusted, unsafe…"

"Violated?"

The word was so quiet, Nick wasn't sure if he'd actually heard it or not, but he didn't like the sound of it. "What do you mean, Greg?"

Nick's friend closed his eyes and tilted his head down, his chin against his chest as he exhaled a long sigh. "That night, when I was attacked…" he said, his voice growing quieter by the syllable. "The guy took my gun. And he raped me."


	13. The Wall Between

_**Author's Note:**_ This marks the end of the middle, if we're going by Joe Campbell's structure of the story. Enjoy. R&R. Make a lonely college student happy today.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: The Wall Between  


A heavy silence rested over the two friends and Greg realized it was the first time he had ever said the words aloud. He hadn't even said them to John in all of their sessions. It had always just been 'what happened to him' or 'the attack.'

And now that the words hung in the air and echoed in his own ears, his face burned in shame and he buried it in his hands, refusing to look at Nick and see his reaction. He was cold, and he was tired, and he was utterly exposed to his friend, and he was afraid of what that meant and what would follow.

And then, Nick spoke. "It's OK, Greg," he said clearly.

Greg shook his head, his face still in his hands. "It's not," he said.

"Well I'm not afraid of you," Nick replied. "That has to be something, right?"

"You will be," Greg replied. "Believe me."

Nick was quiet again for a moment. "Thanks for telling me."

Greg smiled bitterly. "To be honest, you're the _only_ person I've told. Everyone else just seemed to… _know_ already. It sucks when you can't even keep your own secrets."

"Yeah, I get that…" Nick said. There was another moment of silence, and then, "Wow…"

"Intense, isn't it?" Greg asked. "The fear."

"I'm scared," Nick agreed, "but _for_ you. Not of you."

The heavy quiet left them each to their own thoughts once more. "Why not?" Greg asked suddenly.

"Why should I be?" Nick returned with a furrowed brow.

"It's kind of an awkward situation to find yourself in, isn't it?" Greg asked. "You're quiet tells me you're not exactly busting with things to say. You don't seem to be very relaxed around me, you don't seem to know what to do now… That makes people not want to be around me. It turns into fear when they realize there's nothing they can do that would _make_ them want to be around me. It happened to Grissom and Brass fast enough. It even happened to Sara, eventually. It'll happen to you to."

But Nick was shaking his head. "I have my secrets too, Greg," he said simply, his hands between his knees.

"Like what?" Greg probed, feeling it was his right. Whatever secret Nick might have, it couldn't possibly top his.

Nick glanced at him fleetingly, before staring at his knees again. It was a gesture Greg recognized.

"Nick?!" he said, his voice rising to unusual heights with the inflection.

He closed his eyes. "Forget it," Nick said. "It doesn't matter."

"Come on," Greg said. "You owe me that much."

He held his breath a moment before exhaling a massive sigh. "It's nothing like you," he said. "Probably."

Greg was absolutely floored and he recoiled in horror. He had never expected anything like the thoughts that were flooding his mind. He had thought he'd understood Sara and the others before, but now he actually felt their anger and their anxiety. "When?" he said simply. "I mean… you? You weren't…"

"I told you," Nick said, eying him sternly. "It's not the same as you. I was just a kid. And she was…" He lost his words for a moment. "I was scared. To defy her. Because she was my babysitter, and if I made trouble, she'd tell my parents."

Greg nodded slowly. "I never…"

"I got over it," Nick added sternly, making a point.

Greg looked up at him. "But you never talk about it."

"No," he answered.

"So why do I have to?"

Nick heard the pain leaking through Greg's voice and found it too much to bear as he turned away again, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

"I'm sorry," Greg said. "I just don't… _want_…"

"People knowing," Nick concluded. "That's probably what helped me get over it. No one knew, so no one felt sorry for me, so I could always pretend that it never… Jesus, Greg, I'm sorry. Not just that it happened, but that people know. That I made you tell me. I'm sorry."

Greg gave him a weak smile. "It's… OK, I guess…" he said. "I mean, Sara keeps saying the sooner they catch him the sooner everyone can forget about it, but… I'm scared no one will look at me the same again. They'll just see… a victim, or… Someone who was weak and stupid and…"

"No," Nick said emphatically, shaking his head. "I don't see that when I look at you, Greg. Not at all."

"What do you see then?" Greg asked.

He took a deep breath. "I see someone who's… brave. Someone who's fighting. Someone who is trying to hold onto himself above all else. I see _you_, Greg."

"I don't know…" Greg said, turning away from Nick, thoroughly embarrassed now. "Something doesn't feel quite right."

"Because _nothing_ is right," Nick said, with a sudden burst of fury. This prompted Greg to look up, puzzled. But he saw that Nick's hands had balled themselves into fists and he was giving a deadly stare to Greg's coffee table. "Dammit, Greg…" Nick closed his eyes and seemed to will himself to calm down. "This shouldn't have happened. People can't just… _do_ that to someone… to you… I just wish…" And then his voice dropped to a very low decibel, and was so sinister it even made Greg's blood run cold. "I wish I can get my hands on that bastard," he said. "I'll show him who he's fucking with."

Greg had never seen Nick so enraged. An angry Nick was one thing. An angry Nick yelled and hit things… But this was a whole different kind of fury, a silent one, a seething one, boiling darkly beneath his calm surface like a volcano, ready to erupt. His low, steady voice was more frightening than anything Greg had ever seen of him.

"Nick, you don't have to do that," he said. "You're scaring me a little."

But Nick looked away and shook his head. "You don't do that to a person," he said. "Killing someone, that's one thing, but I swear to God, Greg, if I ever meet this guy, he's going to wish he was dead by the time I'm done with—"

"Stop it!" Greg yelled, covering his ears, flashes of that night in the desert rushing unbidden to the forefront of his mind. "Just… stop…. _talking_ like that, I don't _like_ it, OK, I just don't…"

He was shivering again, and the tears stung his eyes, but he forced them away. Not in front of Nick. He could never cry in front of Nick. He desperately tried to hold onto what little he had left of his dignity. His face contorted into a painful grimace as he wracked his brain for a joke, or a funny memory, anything to get his mind off of that night, but all he could see was dust and darkness, and all he could hear was heavy breathing, and all he could taste was his own blood…

And then, Greg felt him again, gripping his arms with a firm, unwavering grip and Greg lost it. He wouldn't let it happen again. He launched himself at his attacker and hit him hard across the face before they fell off of the couch and onto the floor.

Couch…?

And then Greg saw Nick's face staring up at him from the floor, bleeding and utterly horrified and for a moment, Greg couldn't move, posed on top of his friend, his hand in the air, ready to strike another blow. But he quickly scrambled to his feet and gave room for Nick to breathe. The Texan slowly moved into a sitting position. Both men were breathing heavily and Greg's legs couldn't hold his weight and he fell to his knees, looking utterly perplexed.

"I… I'm sorry…" he breathed. "But you just remind me so much of…"

He trailed off and the two men, friends, enemies, stared at each other, each suddenly unsure of themselves and the other person. They had entered some parallel world, and nothing was as it should be, and everything was wrong.

And then, Nick moved, wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve. "It's OK, Greg," he said. "I get it."

"I don't like to be touched," Greg said. "I'm sorry."

"No," Nick said. "I get that, I shouldn't have… But you looked so upset, I just wanted you to know that I—"

"I know," Greg said.

And yet, neither of them knew anything. Neither of them understood this new, unusual wave of something else that had overcome them. A wall had suddenly materialized between them, and Greg realized he had lost his last friend, his last chance.

"I have to go," Greg said, slowly and unsteadily getting to his feet.

"You can't go anywhere," Nick said. "I'll go."

This made sense, so Greg stopped. "OK," he said. "Um… I'm going to go to sleep. Tell Sofia to let Sara and Grissom in when they get here. I'm exhausted."

"OK," Nick nodded, getting to his feet himself. Nick said nothing more as he made for the door, but then Greg called after him.

"Nick?"

His old friend turned to him with wide eyes. "Hm?"

Greg shuffled uncomfortably. "I really…" He wanted to say something. Something that would make all the awkwardness that had been born in the past few minutes suddenly die a twisted death. But he could find nothing. The wall between them remained. "Never mind."

But strangely, Nick smiled, and his smile was warm. "It really is OK, Greg," he said sincerely. "Really."

Greg nodded, feeling a little appeased, before turning around and heading for his room.

* * *

On his way out, Nick ran into Sara and Grissom and tried to avoid their gaze as he hid his face from view. "Your head is inside," he said to them. "Greg said he's going to crash, so try not to bother him, OK?"

"Nick, what happened to your face?" Sara exclaimed, trying to make him look at her.

"Nothing," Nick replied. "Just… drop it, OK?" And without another word, he made his way quickly past the both of them and down the stairs.

Sara and Grissom looked at each other before entering the apartment. The living room was deserted, but Sara heard signs of life deeper in the apartment. She turned to Grissom.

"You take the scene. I'll check on Greg."

Grissom nodded and made his way to the kitchen while Sara continued down the hall to what she guessed was Greg's bedroom from the sounds coming from the other side. She knocked timidly on the door. "Greg? It's me… Can I come in?"

"Go ahead," came his muffled reply, and she opened the door in time to see him take off his shirt and throw it across the room into the laundry basket. He looked at her, his eyes blank, and there was a strange and heavy tension in the room. She closed the door and leaned against it, watching him.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing," she said. "You sounded pretty shaken up on the phone."

"Yeah, well, finding a head in your freezer can do that to you," he replied with a weak smile.

She tried to return the smile, but her heart simply wasn't in it. "I'm worried about you, Greg."

"You and everyone else," Greg said. "The only one who isn't worried about me is, well, me."

"You're not scared?" she asked.

"I never said I wasn't scared."

Sara nodded. "I think this guy wants to finish what he started with you," she said. "I think maybe if we keep you under surveillance and he tries again, we can…"

"I know, we can catch him and have a party because the crazy serial killer rapist is off the streets," Greg said. "Whoopee, I look forward to that." He fell back onto his bed, his arms spread out as he stared at the ceiling. "We're missing something, Sara," he said. "And it's important."

"Then we'll find it," Sara insisted. "And we'll fix it."

"I _am_ Humpty Dumpty, Sara," Greg said.

"I don't believe that," she returned.

"Believe it or not, it's true," Greg said. "John said only I could ever really fix this, but I can't. I can't because I've tried. Because everybody knows. And everybody is afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," Sara said.

"You really _are_ a bad liar," Greg told her, propping himself up on his elbow so he could look at her.

She couldn't look back at him for long. "I'm not afraid of _you_, Greg," she said. "I'm afraid of… making things _worse_ with you. I don't know what to _say_ to you."

"You don't like being around me," Greg said.

"No, I don't," she answered honestly. "Because, Greg… Because Greg when I'm around you, I feel like you're someone else entirely. I feel miserable, and powerless, and—and—and I don't know how to _help_ you! And I want to! You have no _idea_ how badly I just want to turn back the clock and pretend that this never happened, and you'd still be Greg, instead of this walking corpse that I don't even _know_ anymore and I…" She swallowed. "And I want you to let me touch you again. I miss you."

He was sitting up again on his bed, watching her now. "I don't want to be this person either," he said to her. He raked his hands through his hair, sounding baffled. "Believe me, I… I don't like it. I don't like flinching every time somebody touches me by accident. I don't like being afraid of Nick when he's angry. I don't like that I have to push you away. I don't like that Grissom and Brass are avoiding talking to me altogether. I don't like that Catherine and Warrick are looking at me like a sick puppy dog. I don't _like_ that…" He shuddered as he remembered what he had felt like that cold evening in the desert. He had wanted to die. In a way, he still did. But his will to live was far stronger than that.

Sara hung her head, not knowing what to say. She never did anymore. "I'll never understand what you went through," she admitted. "I can acknowledge that. But I will _always_ be here, Greg, and I will _always_ listen. Even if I don't understand."

Greg was rubbing his eyes. "I am so tired, Sara," he said. "Do you mind if I just…"

"Of course," Sara said. "Right, I'll leave you alone now."

With her head still hanging low, she turned around and left Greg alone in his room.

Greg let out a long sigh before throwing himself back on his bead and staring blankly at the ceiling again.


	14. Something Missing

_**Author's Note:**_ Yet again, the classic example of a chapter cut in half for length purposes. As a result, the following chapter is a little short, but it also buys me some time because I haven't yet reached the finish yet (writing-wise), though I expect I'm close. Anyways, hope I wasn't THAT predictable. Lots of you are prophetic in your reviews.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: Something Missing  


Hodges handed her the results before she went into the interrogation room. He was grinning, and with a quick glance at the papers, so was she.

"Good work," she said to Hodges.

"A monkey can run DNA," Hodges replied, but a tinge of red seemed to creep into his cheeks.

Sara hugged the file to her chest and walked confidently into the room, where Brass, the Schwartz brothers, and their lawyer awaited them. One look at Sara told Brass all he needed to know and he smiled as she took her seat, eying Harold Schwartz.

She laid down her hand, knowing she had a royal flush.

"Your DNA was found in the semen at the crime scene of Dr. John Evans," Sara said, almost smugly.

Harold looked confused, his brother looked outraged, and their lawyer was simply inscrutable.

"No…" Harold said slowly. "No, I don't understand crime scenes. I get girl friends. No guy friends. Girls. Don't know guys. Do you want to see my cupboard collection?"

"And what will we find in there, Harold?" Brass asked. "The heads of Lauren Johnson and Bonnie Hunter?"

Harold smiled. "My baby Bonnie," he said.

"This is outrageous, he doesn't keep heads in his cupboard!" Roger exclaimed.

"Oh?" Brass asked. He slid a photograph across the table. "We got a warrant. My people were in your house today. Look at what they found in Harry's room."

It was one of Grissom's crime scene photos and showed the heads of Lauren and Bonnie resting on the shelf as if they belonged there, their eyes open and glassy.

Harold was grinning. "See? My friends, they're my friends, he gave them to me."

"I'm sure we can negotiate an insanity plea," the lawyer said at last. "My client is clearly disturbed."

"Your client was lucid enough to threaten one of my guys," Brass said. "I'd like to see what the courts have to say when they find out what Greg Sanders found in his fridge."

"Who is that?" Harold asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"You know what?" Brass said, watching Harold closely. "I don't think Harry here is so crazy."

"He's been examined by a criminal psychologist," the lawyer said, sounding exasperated. "One of 'your people,' too if I'm not mistaken. And didn't he find that Harold couldn't have committed these murders? Maybe my client is being framed."

"Yeah!" Roger exclaimed. "Yeah, Harold's being framed!" He ruffled Harold's hair. "Don't worry, buddy, I'll get you out of this," he whispered.

"And so just how do you suggest Harold's semen got all over the crime scene?" Sara asked. "The spray wasn't consistent with a plant. It was ejaculated onto that bed."

"Did you find anything _else_ at the crime scene?" Roger asked. "Any _other_ DNA from my brother?"

"All of the other scenes were wiped clean," Sara said. "This one was an exception."

"Maybe the killer wanted you to find that semen," Roger postulated. "Maybe he's messing with you."

"Roger, I would advise you to be quiet," the lawyer said.

Sara was still smiling. "You still haven't explained to me how it got there."

Roger seemed lost for words. He looked at his brother, suddenly nervous, doubting… "Harry, you didn't…" he said, sounding quietly horrified.

Harold still looked positively baffled. "What didn't I do, Roger, what didn't I do? Are they lying to you again? Was there something I forgot to do?"

And then, Roger turned on his brother as he leaned across the table as if to tell something to Sara and Brass in confidence. "You know, he's been violent ever since he's a kid?"

"Roger!" the lawyer said, sharply.

"I'm sorry, but if I'm living with a serial killer…" Roger began. He turned to his brother. "I gave up _everything_ for you! This is how you repay me? I was going to _school_ when Mom and Dad died and your problems landed on my lap!" He turned to Sara and Brass again. "You know, he harassed several girls on campus? He wasn't in school, but he always hung around _my_ campus. He got arrested three times, but the charges never stuck because they were all minor things. I almost got _expelled_ because of him! Jesus, Harry!" He turned back to his brother. "I can't believe you!"

"Can I speak with my clients alone? I think this is a conflict of interest," the lawyer said quickly.

"How about we take Harold to a nice, safe holding cell and you can talk to him there," Brass said, rising to his feet.

Harold was rocking back and forth.

Roger was fuming.

Sara was beaming.

She rose to her feet, hugging the DNA results to her chest like a trophy she prized above all else. Trying to suppress her grin, she turned around and headed out of the room as Brass and another officer cuffed a frantic Harold, who was screaming.

"No! No! They're my friends, what are you doing?"

She ignored all of this however as she strolled out of the room. But she was surprised to see someone else waiting behind the glass, watching the proceedings. She frowned.

"Nick? You're not supposed to be here."

The Texan was stiff, his arms folded and his brow furrowed as he stared at Harold Schwartz. He was grinding his teeth, and Sara wasn't even sure if he knew she was there. And then, he spoke.

"That's the guy?" he said.

Sara held her breath. "Nick, I can't—" But he turned to look at her with the darkest eyes she had ever seen and she faltered. He looked away from her a moment, reserving his gaze for the suspect beyond the glass, now being taken out through the other door.

"Is that the guy who raped Greg?" Nick asked again, his voice low, monotonous, and bone-rattling.

Sara became aware of his heavy breathing, as well as her own. "You know?"

"Apparently I'm the only person that he told," Nick replied, his eyes still on Harold Schwartz. "Let me talk to him."

"Not a good idea," Sara said. "Look, I want to snap his neck just as much as you do, but this is the _best _way to hurt him."

Nick smiled and shook his head. "Nah," he said to her. "Nah, Sara, I don't think you have any idea what I want to do to him."

His hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. Sara approached him. "Nick…" She paused, her mouth open. Again, she was aware of both of their breathing. And then, slowly, she reached out and put a tender hand on his cool, clammy arm.

Instantly, he seemed to relax as he exhaled a long sigh and hung his head. He looked at her, almost seemingly apologetic. His eyes were soft again, more human. More like himself. He smiled at her, and put his other hand over hers on his arm. He then looked back into the now vacant room and shook his head.

"The things people do…" he muttered, sadly.

"Mm," Sara replied, nodding, following his gaze. The hand on his arm traveled downwards until she was clasping his hand.

"Not to Greg…" said Nick, defiantly. "Not to any of us."

And he squeezed her hand.

* * *

Grissom knocked tentatively on the door to the layout room. "Greg?" 

His query looked up from some blue prints that were splayed across the desk. "You need something?"

Grissom smiled. "We got him," he said, his voice calm, and yet somehow proud.

Greg knew immediately what he was talking about and pursed his lips. "Does that mean it's over?"

"I think that's up to you," Grissom replied.

Greg nodded. "You sound like John. Does Dr. Evans know?"

"It's only just happened," Grissom said. "Would you like to tell her?"

"You can," Greg said. "I don't expect she'd be too excited to see me on account of I'm the reason her husband was killed."

"I beg to differ," Grissom returned. "She's been asking about you."

Greg rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I can't see her, Grissom, I just…"

"OK," Grissom said, instantly understanding. He looked at his watch. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago."

"I'll go home soon," Greg told him. "I promise." And he smiled for good measure.

"I'm leaving," he said. "Sara and Warrick are already gone. Nick and Catherine are finishing up a case, so if you need anything…"

"Right," Greg said. "I got it. But I won't need anything."

Grissom nodded before disappearing from the doorway and down the hall, without a further goodbye.

Greg began rolling up his blueprints, deciding he'd ponder the mystery of the missing room sometime later. For now, he was off, and he wasn't being paid overtime. So he would go home, have a beer, or a glass of wine, or a shot of whiskey, or all three, and then go on a quest for sleep that would probably end with him falling asleep to daytime TV.

And then, the shadow of someone he didn't recognize was cast upon the table and Greg looked up to see a tall form blocking the doorway. He had cropped brown hair and what looked like a broken nose. Something about his presence put Greg very ill at ease.

"I'm sorry," said the stranger. "I'm looking for Greg Sanders, have you seen him?"

Recently, Greg was wary of any stranger looking for him. "May have," he said. "Who's looking for him?"

He smiled warmly, but instead of comforting Greg, it simply made him more unnerved. He extended his hand. "My name is Roger Schwartz," he said.

Greg moved a step backwards, his eyes on the large hand being offered to him. Greg looked up at him. "Why are you looking for Greg?" he asked, trying not to sound defensive.

Roger looked slightly offended that Greg didn't take his offered hand. "Look, my brother did something to him and I just wanted to apologize," Roger said. "I know it's tough, having your throat cut and all. Not from experience or anything, but… well, you know." He shrugged. "Anyways, my brother's a real psycho. It kind of scares me, really, I had no idea, but actually it makes a lot of sense… Well, like I said, just looking to apologize is all. Could you point me in the direction of his office, or wherever he may be?"

Greg shook his head. "No," he said. "I mean, you just missed him. His shift ended ten minutes ago."

"Ah," said Roger, looking slightly disappointed. "Well, you tell him I was looking for him, Mister…"

"Stokes," Greg said automatically. "And I will."

Roger grinned. "Thank you kindly, Mr. Stokes."

And without another word, he was gone again.

Greg's uneasiness did not leave with him and he shuffled on the spot, feeling as if someone had just caught him coming out of the shower without a towel. He tried to sort through his thoughts for a few minutes on his own, to figure out what this feeling was trying to tell him. After a while, he realized that he would need help to sort it out. He bit his lip and grabbed his blue prints, then headed down the hall, poking his head into rooms, and kept his eyes open, his heart pounding in his ears and he wasn't sure why.

Something was wrong. He knew it as inherently as he knew that putting an armed guard on him was a bad idea. It was instinct driving him, or something else that he couldn't explain. He needed to find Nick.

He finally found the Texan in a nearby layout room, staring down at a photograph with a furrowed brow. He looked up upon Greg's entrance. "What's up?"

Greg licked his dry lips. "That guy they arrested," Greg began. "What's his name?"

"Sara said you didn't—"

"I want to know now," Greg interrupted. "Please?"

Nick held up the photograph he'd been scrutinizing. "Harold Schwartz."

Greg snatched the photograph and narrowed his eyes at it. "He feels familiar…" he said.

"He, uh… probably should…" Nick said, a little awkwardly.

"No…" Greg said, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes at the photo. "Not in that way. His hair… they found blonde hair, right?"

"Greg, why are you doing this?" Nick asked. "We've already caught him."

"I don't think we have…" Greg whispered, alarmed. That was it. That was what was wrong. That was what his instincts were telling him.

"Why not?" Nick asked, sounding worried himself.

"I can't explain it…" Greg said, shaking his head. "I mean, I didn't see or hear the guy, I just felt him and…" He blanched. "And smelled him. Nick— What about his brother?"

"What about him?" Nick was perplexed.

"Was he a suspect?" Greg demanded.

"Uh… I don't know," Nick said. "It wasn't my case."

"We're missing something…" Greg was saying. "Something important, and I just… Do you have a picture of the brother?"

Nick shook his head, his mouth partially open. "You think…"

"I don't know," Greg said. "But I just saw him. The brother, I mean, he wanted to… apologize to me… but I didn't… he seemed…" Greg looked down at the photograph, trying to make sense of things. "Something was off about him. He had a… something about him, I think it was his smell, it… It scared me."

"You recognized his _smell_?" Nick asked, his eyes wide.

"Well not _consciously_!" Greg exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "I mean, my face was in the dirt for most of it, so all I could smell was that, and the blood in my mouth, and sweat…" He bit his lip. "I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy."

"Yeah…" Nick said. "Yeah, calm down. I mean, Griss and Sara, they got him. And they're good, right? They wouldn't make a mistake. I'm sure this guy was a suspect. I'm sure he was cleared. Why would they miss him?"

Greg was shaking his head, then suddenly stopped and looked at Nick. "He has brown hair."

"What?" Nick blinked. "Oh…"

"And it's _short_," Greg said. "Did they find any hairs at the Evans' place?"

"Not that I know of…" Nick said. "The closing element was the semen on the sheets. It matched Harold Schwartz."

"Well if it matched Harold…" Greg was beginning to falter. What was he _missing_?! 


	15. More Than Brothers

_**Author's Note:**_ OK, short chapter today, and the next one's only a little longer, but this is so I can please both of us as I'm behind in my writing. With shorter chapters, I can catch up with myself and not delay posting for you fine folks. So enjoy. Like I said, hope I wasn't too obvious.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: More Than Brothers  


Brass personally escorted the babbling Harold to a holding cell. His brother and lawyer had both abandoned him, and they were alone with another officer.

"No…" Harold was saying. "You don't understand… He's _poisoning_ me."

"Is that right?" Brass said, feigning interest. "Is this the same person who gave you your cupboard friends?"

"Yes!" Harold exclaimed. "Yes!"

"Uh huh," Brass said, rolling his eyes. "So what's his name? Satan?"

"I can't say his name," Harold said with wide eyes. "Not unless I'm addressing him directly. I can't say his name if I'm just talking about the things he does for me. He said so."

"Who said so?" Brass asked.

"Can't say, he'll hurt me again," Harold replied.

"Believe me, the only one who can hurt you behind those bars are the inmates," Brass said.

"My brother," Harold replied.

Brass stopped walking. "What?"

Harold nodded fervently. "Mm hm, he puts amphitheaters in my cereal and forces me to eat it. I think he puts other things in my food too, to make me crazy. I'm not paranoid. I'm not."

"Wait," Brass said. He had no idea why he was putting much stock in the words of a sociopath, but he had a nagging feeling that wouldn't quit. "You said that your _brother_ gave you your friends?"

"Uh huh," Harold said. "He handed them to me all pretty and told me to keep them in my cupboard. They talk to me. Bonnie tells me pretty stories, and the other one, she's so nice—"

"Wait…" Brass said, trying to sort this out. "This doesn't make sense, Harold, you have to help me out here, can you do that?"

Harold looked like he was straining, but then nodded eagerly. "I can try, I can try."

"Good," Brass said. "So your brother Roger gave you the heads of the two women we found in your cupboard."

"Right!" Harold said, grinning and nodding emphatically.

"Wait a minute," Brass said. "Wait a minute—Roger said he was your older brother, right?"

"Only by a lousy six minutes," Harold said.

And that was when Brass realized their fatal mistake. "Holy mother of…"

* * *

Greg stared harder at the photograph, at the man's mane of sandy hair, at his icy blue eyes, at his sharp chin, at his perfectly sculpted nose… "Oh my God…" he said, then looked up at Nick. "They're twins." 

"What?!" Nick cried, snatching the photo from Greg's fingers to examine it himself. "You think Roger cut and dyed his hair???"

"And wore contacts," Greg added. "His eyes are brown."

"And his nose is crooked," Nick said. "Making his face distinctly different from his brother's."

"But their chins are the same," Greg said. "Roger could have broken his nose as a kid or something, and had it permanently disfigured. They're _identical twins_."

Nick closed his eyes as realization dawned. "No… _No_, Sara and Grissom wouldn't have _missed_ something as obvious as that."

"You missed it," Greg pointed out. "Hell, _I_ missed it. The bastard's smart. Commit all the murders, leave non-DNA evidence linking a long-haired blonde to the scene, and then get a fucking hair cut."

"And then the coup de grâce in framing his brother…" Nick began.

"The semen," Greg finished.

They stared at each other for a moment. "Jesus…" Nick said, rolling his eyes. "It's so fucking _obvious_! Son of a bitch… We gotta find him!"

"He's probably on his way out of town by now!" Greg cried. "He just got away with rape and _murder_!"

"When did he leave?" Nick asked.

"Maybe about fifteen minutes ago?" Greg guessed. "I don't know, how long have we been talking?"

Nick raked his hands through his hair, feeling overwhelmed as he fell into a chair. "Call Grissom," he said. "This is big."

And then, Nick's phone began to ring. He frowned before answering it. "Stokes."

"Nick, it's Brass, is Grissom there?" The detective spoke at light speed.

"Nah, he checked out about twenty minutes ago," Nick said.

"Well his damn phone is off _again_," Brass snapped. "He needs to charge that thing. And Sara isn't answering. She's not there, is she?"

"She headed home right after you booked Harold," Nick replied. "About an hour ago. But listen, Brass—"

"Harold and Roger Schwartz are _twins_," Brass interrupted.

"We know," Nick said, looking at Greg. "And you got the wrong one."

"We need to put out an alert," Brass said, shaking his head. "He couldn't have gotten far."

"How can we help?" Nick asked eagerly.

"You stay where you are, I'll handle this. Keep Greg with you at all times, do you understand me? He might come back to finish what he started."

"I hear ya," Nick said. "Good luck contacting Grissom and Sara. Bye."

"What'd he say?" Greg asked.

"That you're to stay with me at all times," Nick replied.

"OK," Greg said. "Then let's go."

"Where?" Nick asked. "We have no _idea_ where he could have gone, Greg!"

"It's been fifteen minutes, how far could he have gotten?" Greg returned.

"No, don't be stupid. I'll drive you home," Nick said, getting to his feet.

Greg was frowning. Something still felt deathly wrong, even though they'd seemed to have figured it out. They were still missing something. "You said Brass couldn't get a hold of Grissom and Sara?" he asked.

"Grissom's phone is off and Sara's not picking up," Nick said. "She's probably asleep."

Greg was shaking his head. "Nah, Sara keeps her phone by her bed, in case Grissom calls her in early…"

"How do you know that?" Nick asked.

"I called her once and woke her up," Greg replied. He shrugged. "I'm an insomniac, what can I say?"

"So maybe she just didn't hear it, no big deal," Nick said with a shrug.

"Nick…" Greg began. "You know that feeling I had? About Roger? About how I _knew_ something was off about him?"

"Yeah…" Nick said slowly.

"I still have that feeling," Greg explained. "It hasn't gone away."

"Look, you're probably just paranoid, OK?" Nick said. "As well you should be, he's probably coming back for you."

"No, that's not the feeling I got," Greg said, shaking his head, trying to sort through his thoughts. "I don't think it's about me…"

"Then who is it about?" Nick asked.

"It's about him…" Greg muttered. He laughed. "I mean, isn't it always?"

Nick looked at his phone. "I'm going to call Grissom again…" he said slowly, sounding nervous.

Greg nodded absently, his brain off somewhere else. Bonnie Hunter, himself, Lauren Johnson, and John Evans. None of them had anything in common, except for the personal connection between Greg and John. As far as he knew, Bonnie and Lauren never met each other, and John certainly never knew them. Roger had used Greg's name with Lauren, each attack escalating. Maybe it _was_ about Greg after all, but in a different way. It was almost… an homage. Roger wasn't annoyed that Greg had escaped, he was impressed. He used his name… he killed his therapist… he put the head in his fridge… two ominous notes… What was this guy getting at? What was his next move? Greg was sure this was far from over. The murder of John Evans had been intense by itself, but it was a far cry from the finale Greg knew was coming. He just needed to figure it out. What would be worse than the rape and murder of his trusted therapist, the only person he was connecting with?

And then it hit him like lightening and nearly knocked him off his feet.

Nick hung up. "Grissom's phone is still off. I left him a message."

Greg chewed on his lip before nodding, determinedly. "It's one of them," he said. "It has to be."

"What's one of them? One of who?" Nick hadn't been privy to Greg's thought processes and was lost in the woods.

"Roger Schwartz's next target," Greg said. "We have to get out of here." And without further explanation, he spun around on his heal and marched out of the room. Nick leapt on his tail.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? Brass told us to stay here!"

"Tell Brass to go to Grissom's place," Greg said. "I'm going to go check on Sara."

"Brass can send a unit to do that," Nick protested.

"Then let him," Greg said. "I bet you anything I'll still get there first."

"Why?" Nick asked.

"Schwartz knew John was my psychiatrist, right?" Greg asked, pulling his keys from his pocket as he left the building.

"Sure…" Nick said slowly.

"So he must be keeping tabs on me," Greg explained, the thought of it making him feel more exposed, but it was necessary so he pushed these feelings aside. "That means he's seen who's working his case. Grissom and Sara. He knows that they know what happened to me. Grissom is my boss, my mentor, he figured it out, he's heading the case. Sara is my colleague, my friend, the one who's trying to get near me, but can't."

Greg climbed into the car and motioned for Nick to follow him, and the Texan reluctantly obeyed.

"He wants something that will hit close to home with me. That's his final strike. I may have gotten away, and he respects that, but he'll be sure that I know that I was an exception to the rule. The head in my fridge was a gift, not a threat. That's why the Post-It said it was specifically for me. Like a tag on a present. It's sick."

"OK…" Nick said as Greg started the car. "So which one is it, Sara or Grissom?"

Greg shook his head. "I don't know. I want to say it's Sara, because, I don't know, maybe he would see her as more vulnerable, because she's a woman."

"Then that would show he doesn't really know Sara, wouldn't it?" Nick asked.

"Exactly," Greg said. "And he does know her. And because he doesn't necessarily target women, it could just as easily be Grissom. Have you called Brass yet?"

"On it," Nick said, fishing out his cell phone.

Unlike the empty roads Greg was driving, his mind was a cluttered freeway for thoughts. He was sending Brass to Grissom, almost hoping that Grissom was Schwartz's target. If he was, then Brass might get there in time to stop anything from happening and then the whole thing would be over. But he was concerned about Sara, mostly because while Grissom's phone was off, she simply wasn't answering hers. Which could be explained by any number of logical reasons, nevertheless it chilled him… And Schwartz had fifteen minutes on them. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes. Greg knew from experience. If only he hadn't waited to find Nick, if only he and Nick hadn't spent so much time figuring it out…

"OK," Nick said, hanging up. Greg hadn't caught a word of the conversation that had passed between Nick and Brass. "He's sending a unit to both places and heading to Grissom's personally."

"ETA?" Greg asked.

"Five minutes for Grissom, a little more for Sara," he told him.

"We will get there first," Greg said, turning onto Sara's road.


	16. The Next Target

_**Author's Note:**_ I apologize for the obscenely short chapter. It was supposed to be combined with the last chapter, but, well, this is more suspenseful I suppose. Also I'm sick. Writing has suffered. Bah...

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: The Next Target  


She was washing the dishes when it happened. That eerie sense that she wasn't alone in the kitchen. She looked left. She looked right. But deep inside, she knew nothing was there. So she kept on scrubbing the eggs off her plate. She didn't even know why she cooked anymore. She hated cooking for one.

Her phone was silenced and the TV was muted. She didn't know it yet, but she wouldn't go in to work today. She would be too sick with grief that she wouldn't be able to move.

Something dashed out of the corner of her eye, and somewhere down the hall she heard a door slam. She turned around, breathless, waiting. Was someone there?

Slowly, she took a knife out of the sink, turned off the water and crept out of the kitchen, soundlessly, so as not to alert the other presence that she had heard him. She moved down the hall to the door to the bedroom, which had been previously open the last time she checked. She reached out and turned the knob before carefully opening the door and peering inside.

"Is anyone there?" she breathed

It was exactly the same as it had been the last time she had been in there, which in all honesty had been days ago. She noticed an open window which was letting the wind in and sighed. That had been what had slammed the door. Nothing more.

Inwardly, she was disappointed.

She strolled over to the window and pulled it down before looking over her shoulder at the neatly made bed she used to sleep in, before she had taken to sleeping in the guest room. The sheets that had originally been on it had been taken into evidence, and she disposed of the mattress herself before buying a new one. So in a way, it wasn't the bed she used to sleep in at all. It was brand new and alien. It was hard and cold and lonely without another warm body lying next to her. The same warm body that had been lying next to her for nineteen years. One short of twenty.

She turned around again to look at the window and sighed before opening it again. The stench that still lingered in the stuffy air of the bedroom reminded her why she had left it open in the first place. She felt the cool breeze of the fall evening entangle itself in her long blonde hair and she imagined him running his fingers through it, delicately caressing her cheek. She closed her eyes, and for a brief, blissful moment, he was next to her again, his arms around her waist as he softly kissed her neck from behind. He told her that everything would be alright. And for that moment, she believed him.

And then, the bedroom door slammed again, jarring her agonizingly from her sweet reverie. She looked over at the door to the bedroom, closed again, and felt her heart plummet into her stomach as she remembered he was gone.

Indeed, there was no doubt that Riza Evans was living with a ghost.

And then, she felt her phone vibrate against her thigh. Wondering who would be calling her and expecting to find it was the hospital, Riza was surprised when she read the caller ID and answered immediately.

"Hello?"

"How are you doing?" The voice was soft and gentle, and it soothed her weary nerves.

She took a deep breath. "I'll be alright," she whispered. "I'm in the bedroom…"

"I understand," he said, and clearly he did, for he never said a word he didn't mean. "I wanted to tell you something. It's good news, if you can take it."

"I can always take good news," she replied.

"We've caught the man who killed your husband. His name is Schwartz. He's in prison now."

She smiled as a crystal tear slid down her pale cheek. "Oh… yes… good… How is Greg?"

"He was fine, the last I spoke to him."

"And how are you?"

He paused. "I am not the issue."

"You are," she argued. "Because you're worried about him. I could see it at the hospital, and I can hear it now in your voice."

"I have far fewer worries than you, my dear."

Ever the humble martyr. Being married to a psychiatrist had taught her a thing or two about reading people, not to mention her natural empathy. She knew he would never stop worrying about Greg. Or, it seems, even her. "Thank you, Dr. Grissom."

"It was my colleague that did most of the work," he replied. "I just wanted to let you know."

"I won't hang up until I hear you say, 'You're welcome,'" Riza said, with the ghost of a smile flickering across her lips.

He laughed. "You're welcome," he said. And she let him go.

* * *

After he hung up on Riza, he turned up the music on his stereo and turned off his phone, so there would be no interruptions to his early morning meditation. He reclined on his couch and tilted his head back as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The stress had been getting to him. He was glad it was all finally over. The music, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, washed over him like the ocean and he imagined he was on the beach, alone, with no other person for miles as he closed his eyes. The sonata was a piece he knew so well, he didn't even have to dwell on it much. Now was when he let all of the troubles of the day wash away. 

Everything that was on his mind, everything that caused him concern or curiosity or contempt fled to the depths of his mind and buried themselves in the sand. His anxiety about Greg, his sympathy for Riza, and his musings of Sara were far from him now. There was only Gil Grissom and the music as it slowly purged him of his fears.

And just as he was beginning to fall asleep, towards the end of the sonata, Grissom heard something unfamiliar coming from his front door. His eyes snapped open and he waited, his ears tuned to the sound. Someone was walking around outside his townhouse.

He sat up. He watched the door.

And then, the noise really began.

* * *

She wrung out her damp hair between her hands before letting it fall onto her shoulders and the silk robe as she stared at herself in the foggy mirror. She ran a comb through her ratted hair, sprinkling the sink with water as she did so. When she had finished, she reached for her hair dryer and stopped when she heard a strange shuffling sound outside of the door. She frowned. What time was it? Was he early? 

She opened the bathroom door and stepped tentatively into the hall. "Gil?" she called. But there was no reply. She entered the living room and caught sight of the clock in the kitchen. "You're early…" She walked to the kitchen, feeling strangely perturbed, and decided to brew some tea to calm her nerves. She was probably just anxious because of Greg. She always was.

She put the kettle on and leaned against the counter as she waited for the water to boil. She saw her reflection in the tinted glass of the microwave and tensed as she saw movement by the couch in the living room reflected in it as well. But when she turned around, there was nothing there.

She exhaled sharply, scolding herself for being so stupid. Who would be in her apartment? She was safe. She locked her door, even when she was home. Still, she would feel better if she had her gun nearby, or at least something. And though she knew that was uncalled for paranoia, she began to make her way to where she kept her steak knives.

And then she heard her phone vibrating on her counter. She went to answer it, but in her rush, she knocked it off of the counter and it skidded across the floor into the living room. She bent to pick it up, but by the time she had gotten to it, whoever had been calling had hung up. She straightened and checked her missed calls. She had several and laughed. Brass had called her three times while she was in the shower, and this last time made number four. She wondered why he was so desperate to talk to her. She saw that he'd left her a voice mail…

"Sara, I just spoke with Harold Schwartz who finally decided to tell me where he got his head collection from. His brother. Twin brother. Don't ask me how we missed this, but the Schwartzes are identical _twins_—"

She didn't get to finish the rest of the message however because cold hands slithered like twin serpents around her neck and slick, sharp piece of metal pressed into the skin under her chin and she dropped the phone in surprise. She realized bitterly that it was her own kitchen knife.

* * *

There was a crash outside of Grissom's door, and then, "Las Vegas Police, open up!" 

He sat up on his couch and eyed the door quizzically. "Jim, is that you?" he called.

He heard shuffling from behind the door. "Er… You OK in there, Gil?" Brass called at last, sounding minutely embarrassed.

Grissom rose to his feet and walked over to the door before opening it to see Brass and an entourage of officers. "What's this about?"

Brass sighed and rolled his eyes as he lowered his gun. "Greg thought you might be in trouble," he replied.

Grissom frowned. "Why would he think that?"

"Harold Schwartz didn't commit the murders," Brass explained, pulling out his phone. "Roger did."

All the worries and fears that had been washed away by the music suddenly returned to him again. "What's that mean?"

"He has a new target," Brass said, and then, into the phone, turning away from Grissom, "How close are you to Sara Sidle's apartment?" There was a pause. "Move faster, he's not here." And with that he hung up.

"Jim, what's going on?" Grissom asked, chills beginning to run down his spine.

Brass sighed. "Greg narrowed it down to two targets," he explained. "You or Sara."

"How does he know?" Grissom asked.

"Nick said it was a hunch," Brass replied. "But right now it's the only lead we've got. If he's not at Sara's, he'll be half way out of town by now. I've already alerted cops around the state to look out for him, in case Greg's wrong."

Grissom cupped his hands to his mouth. "And where are Nick and Greg now?"

"I told them to stay at the lab, that I'd handle it," Brass said.

Grissom rolled his eyes and stepped outside, slamming the door to his townhouse as he walked briskly to his car. "You should know them both better than that by now, Jim," he said. 


	17. Touch

_**Author's Note:**_ I just got back from the dentist and now my teeth hurt. Because I know you wanted to know that. Chapters will be up when I can get them up. R&R.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Touch  


She was aware of her own breathing, and his, and felt his fingers snake down her side to rest on her hip.

"Roger?" she breathed.

She felt his chest heave against her back as his putrid moist breath brushed against her ear. "Hello, Miss Sidle."

He found her sash and delicately pulled the knot undone. She felt the robe loosen against her skin. She needed to do something. Sara Sidle never went down without a fight.

"So…" she began, trying to think of the best way to fix her problem. "You fooled me. You must feel pretty smart right about now, don't you?"

He laughed again. "Hm, a little. But I only feel smart when I fool smart people."

_Son of a bitch_, she thought, gritting her teeth, ever aware of the knife pressing against her throat, and his hand, sinisterly creeping around her stomach.

That was enough.

Her hands flew to the one around her waist and she tried to spin him around in a classic defense move, but he threw her to the floor instead, and with such force she fell badly onto her ankle and cried out. Her hands on the floor behind her, she scurried away from him like a crab, her eyes on the knife he wielded, and the defined muscles of his arms. He was stronger than her. That posed a greater threat than the knife had against her throat. It meant she wouldn't be able to physically overpower him, and though she wouldn't admit it to herself consciously, a part of her was petrified.

He approached her with a grin and she reached the wall, aware that her robe was falling aside and she clutched it closed in a vain attempt at modesty. She knew his signature. She knew what was coming, and she wouldn't give up that easily, even with her ankle radiating pain as if it were on fire. She drew her good leg up beneath her and kneeled on her other knee, posing for the attack. She gave him the dirtiest look she could muster and then launched herself at him off of her good leg, successfully knocking Roger to the ground. He held tight to the knife, but she grabbed his wrists and they struggled there until he rolled her over onto her back, successfully pinning her to the floor as he straddled her with sturdy thighs pressing against the sides of her stomach. She struggled with his hands and refused to slacken her grip on his wrists until he twisted his knife hand one way, forcing her to let go, and slashed at the other hand, making her cry out as the knife pierced her skin and the blood trickled down her forearm.

The minute she let go of him, he clutched both of her tiny wrists in his massive hand and pinned them up above her head. With the knife in his teeth, he snatched her sash out from around her waist and bound her wrists together, so tightly it cut off her circulation and she slowly felt her fingers begin to tingle and go numb. Her robe had fallen open, leaving herself utterly exposed, and her chest heaved up and down with the exertion of the fight. He laughed and placed the tip of the knife right under her chin, forcing her head up. And then, she didn't dare move. If she did, the knife could pierce her jaw, or worse, her jugular.

The tip of the blade slowly moved down the length of her neck, never actually penetrating the skin. It was as though he were a surgeon, tracing the incision before he made it. And then, the knife went further, down the top of her chest, between her breasts, and down to her navel where it finally came to a stop, the blade tantalizingly close to him as well, and a very vulnerable area of attack at that. Ever the fighter, Sara's mind flashed at how she could use this to her advantage, maybe if he positioned the knife just right and she bucked her hips and just the right second…

But then he moved, wriggling down her hips, and the knife moved too, lower, until finally, her heart sick with dread, she understood his intentions. Her stomach was flooded with cold fear as her thighs unconsciously tightened and locked together. She _would not_ let that happen. He _wouldn't_ do that.

He smiled up at her as he felt her tense beneath him and she struggled some more in his grip. Still, it wasn't over. Nothing had happened yet. She hadn't made a sound. She hadn't bucked her hips. If he tried to hurt her, she would. She would make sure that blade went in the opposite direction. She would castrate him. Now if only she could figure out how.

"It's a power play," she said, hiding the tremble in her voice. "You and your victims."

"You're far calmer than I thought you would be," Roger observed casually.

"This won't happen," she said confidently.

"Denial," Roger concluded. He leaned closer, hovering above her body. "You don't believe you're going to die. Well. We can fix that."

He maneuvered the knife in his hand so the hilt was between his thumb and forefinger, the blade erect in the air and Sara recognized her chance and bucked her hips as hard as she could. He lifted his hand above his knife head, and his eyebrows rose in what looked to be curiosity. He had raised his hand just in time for her to miss bumping the hilt with her hip, and he recognized exactly what she was doing.

"Impressive," he said with a smile. His knife hand lowered to her body again, the knife still pointing upwards as he seized her breast and dug in his claws like a cat. She yelped and shut her eyes tight, his cold, abusive grip like a bucket of ice water, dowsing the fire in her.

"Stop it…" she whimpered, her eyes closed so she couldn't see his dead eyes.

His vice-like grip tightened even further and she tensed, the hilt of the knife pressing as painfully into her skin as his sharp nails. "This will happen, Sara," he hissed in her ear. "Deny it all you want, fight it all you want, but you will be mutilated tonight, and it will be beautiful."

He released his grip on her, and crimson blossomed from four tiny wounds where his nails had been. He spun the knife around in his hand, the tip of the blade poised over the center of her chest. But she saw none of this because her eyes were still closed, her head turned to the side, refusing to acknowledge him, pretending to be somewhere else. She felt the flat of the blade cold against her cheek, and then it turned and he sliced her. She cringed as she felt his tongue on her face, lapping up the deep red fluid as it dribbled down her cheek.

And then, more out of frustration and pride than anything else, she yelled, "Just _do_ it already!"

The flat of the knife was on her other cheek now, forcing her to turn her head to him and she opened her eyes. "Not without you watching," he said.

And watch she did, her fierce eyes glued to his face, as if she owed it to herself to watch every little movement of her murderer, to try and learn every thought of her rapist. She clenched her teeth as his hands wedged between her locked thighs. She wouldn't move. So he plunged the knife into the top of her left thigh and she screamed as she lost feeling in it. As it went limp, he forced her legs apart, and she felt the icy invasive tip of the knife—

And then there was a deafening pounding from the door of the apartment, and he dropped the knife in surprise, looking up. Sara inhaled sharply and her eyes snapped tightly shut.

"Sara?!" a familiarly desperate Southern drawl screamed from the other side of the door. "Are you OK?"

She let out an earsplitting scream in reply as Roger seized the knife and made to thrust it into her pelvis in one last-ditch effort. The door burst open and two shots were fired, but the bullets hit nothing but the wall of Sara's apartment.

"_Get the _fuck_ off of her, you malignant shit_!"

And then, miraculously, he _was_ off of her, and Sara felt appallingly naked. Her good hand pulled her robe shut as she scrambled over to the wall, eyes wide as she saw Nick pushing Roger Schwartz's face into her carpet. He yanked Roger's hands unceremoniously behind Roger's back and cuffed them.

He then spun Roger onto his back and struck him clear across the face a several times. And then, Sara saw his hand fly to where his gun was holstered and hover over it momentarily, before he seemed to change his mind.

"Aw, you're not _worth_ it," he growled, and elbowed him hard in the stomach, forcing Roger to choke out an 'oof' sound.

"You're _damn_ lucky the cops will be here soon," Nick snarled as he banged Roger's head against the floor for good measure. "Else wise I might do something you'll regret."

Sara was in such a state of shock that she wasn't even aware of a third presence, a softer presence, who was now kneeling beside her.

He had untied her wrists and was gripping her shoulder, and she didn't even realize the magnitude of what this tiny gesture really meant.

"Sara!" he was whispering sharply. "_Sara_!"

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide and blank as she saw Greg staring back at her, his brown eyes just as wide as hers, penetrating and terrified. He grabbed her other shoulder.

"Sara, are you OK!?" He was breathless, shaken, desperate.

She blinked and looked down at her bleeding wrist, and the growing blood stain on the pink silk that rested against her thigh. She looked up at Greg again, who to her surprise was laughing lightly, his eyes closed.

"Stupid, stupid question," he mumbled shaking his head.

She smiled, too, a gap-toothed grin that turned his insides to mush and he gathered her up in a tight embrace, his hand stroking her hair firmly, but not painfully. Securely, but tenderly.

"Oh my God, Sara…" he breathed as he felt her hands rest lightly on his back. "I am so, _so_ sorry…"

She didn't speak, but her arms tightened around him and he felt her chest heave in short, staccato movements. It took Greg a minute to realize that she was crying.

"Sh…" he whispered, his hand coming to rest at the back of her head as the other ran up and down her back. "You'll be OK, I promise. It gets better."

He entangled his fingers in her hair and let her cry, closing his eyes, silently thanking God for letting them get there in time. And as he held her, he realized that it felt _right_, for the first time, to be touching another person. He had been so afraid to let her hold him, or indeed to let her even touch him, but in holding her, in soothing her, he felt something inside of him click, something that had been broken for months until that moment, and he appreciated and coveted her closeness now more than anything in the world. He clutched her tighter then, and this time not to reassure her, but himself.

And then, the police entered the apartment, and he saw them pull Nick off of the beaten Roger. One of them almost had to restrain Nick, he was so angry. Two others pulled Roger to his feet. Roger turned to look at Sara's back, his face bleeding, and Greg's eyes stared up at him, cold and inscrutable. In the tussle with Nick, one of his contacts had fallen out, and he watched Greg with eerie, dual-colored eyes before smiling.

"I knew you'd figure it out eventually," he called loudly. "I just hoped I'd at least have time enough to finish your last gift."

Greg felt Sara tense in his arms, and in response he whispered in her hair for her to calm down, but his eyes never left Roger as he was pulled out of the room, leaving the three CSIs alone.

There was silence, except for Sara's quiet sobs, stifled by Greg's shoulder. Nick looked at the pair of them on the floor and Sara's bleeding leg.

"We're going to have to take you to a hospital," he said in quiet tones.

"She knows," Greg answered for her.

Nick nodded, and shuffled awkwardly before looking away, as if he was observing something private that he shouldn't have been witnessing. "I'll be outside then…" he said. "When she's ready…"

Greg could tell from Nick's eyes as he turned to leave that he wanted badly to help Sara, but knew it was not his place. Not today.

And so he left the two of them alone.

She didn't speak and neither did he, but he felt that after a few minutes, she had stopped crying. And then, finally, she spoke for the first time since Greg and Nick had arrived.

"You're touching me."

He panicked, and lifted his hands from her back and head. "Would you rather I not?"

She pulled away from him and smiled before taking both of his hands in hers. She looked down at them for a moment before putting one of them on her unscathed cheek.

"You used to be afraid to touch me," she said.

He wiped a stray tear away from her eye with his thumb and pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. "I guess I was more afraid that you weren't OK."

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "I'm not," she said.

He nodded. "I know."

She smiled at him and pulled her arms close to her chest before leaning against him. "Thank you…" she whispered.

He wrapped his arms around her protectively and kissed the top of her hair. "Always," he replied, resting his chin on the top of her head.

* * *

He wanted to carry her outside on account of her leg and ankle, but she refused, only allowing him to support her as she hobbled outside on more or less one foot. She couldn't feel anything beneath her waist, or so she told him. Greg wasn't sure if this was because of the shock, or some deeper physical injury. But as a result, the way he was supporting her, he might as well have been carrying her, as he bore most her weight. By the time they were outside, Grissom and Brass were there as well, along with an ambulance and Sara grinned as Grissom rushed over to the two of them and took Sara from Greg's arms, holding her as tightly as Greg had held her upstairs.

"Thank God…" he whispered, his blue eyes still hazy with a residue of fear. "You're alright…"

"I'm bleeding on you," she said.

"I don't care," Grissom replied, but he broke the embrace anyway. "Come on. Your wounds need attention."

He led her up into the ambulance and jumped in with her. Greg made to follow when Brass stopped him, looking stern.

"I thought I told you and Nick to stay put," he sad with narrowed eyes.

"And if we did, we wouldn't have gotten here in time," Greg replied.

Brass sighed and looked away, knowing Greg was right. Nick lumbered over to the two of them, looking from one to the other. Brass looked at them both again.

"I know you meant well," he said. "And you did good. But next time, listen to me, OK?"

Both Nick and Greg nodded, and Brass returned the nod, his lips pursed as he walked away, clearly disturbed. Nick glanced at Greg.

"How is she?" he asked quietly, as if the subject was taboo.

Greg stared after the ambulance as it drove off down the road. "A little rattled," he replied. "But she'll be fine."

Nick nodded and followed Greg's gaze, folding his arms. "And how are you?"

Greg didn't reply because he honestly wasn't sure.

Nick just sighed. "Right." He looked at Greg again. "How did it feel?"

"I'm sorry?" Greg didn't understand.

"To hold her," Nick replied. "I know you've been having issues with that sort of thing. How did it feel?"

Greg shrugged. "It felt… normal."

Nick watched him for a long time before reaching out tentatively and putting a hand on Greg's shoulder. Greg turned his head to look at him and smiled before pulling Nick into a brotherly embrace and the two of them laughed. 


	18. Scars

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm unsatisfied with this ending but I can't figure out why. I was going to have a sort of Q&A follow-up with Nick, Brass and Roger, but decided against it. I generally have some sort of discussion with the killer in the end (Mindy and Sofia, Queen of Spades, Vera and Greg, Collateral Damage, even Sara and Danny in a way or Nick and Dr. Norris from Silent Night). So there's no follow-up with what happens to our villain. Let's just assume he goes to jail and that's that. Anyways, this is the end. I'm not sure what my next project will be at all, but I suppose you'll find out soon enough.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Scars  


_One Week Later_

Sara shrugged off her robe and looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. She ran her fingers through her hair. She turned left and looked at her profile. She pouted. She sucked in her stomach and straightened her back. She frowned, sighed, and slouched. She closed her eyes and rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling embarrassed, even though she was alone.

She stooped and lifted the terrycloth robe from the ground before wrapping herself in it again. It was fuzzier and warmer than her thin, silk one, which was still in evidence. But even if it wasn't, she would have been afraid to wear it. She took her cane, which was leaning against the wall, and limped down the hall to her room, where she made a point to close the door behind her.

She got dressed. At first, she put on a V-neck top, but the bruise crept into view and she decided to trade it in for a turtleneck. But then she looked at herself in the mirror. She looked horrible in turtlenecks. She took off the shirt and looked at the abandoned V-neck and cursed her newfound shame. She snatched the V-neck and put it on before looking at herself in the mirror again. It was nothing some makeup couldn't fix. She hoped.

She shook out her hair and tried to smile before applying concealer.

When she was done, she snatched her cane and headed for her first day of work since in a week.

* * *

When she limped into the lab, Grissom's face lit up the room.

"Hey," he said to her softly. "You look good."

She beamed at him. "I feel good," she told him.

He handed her a file. "419 on Brooklyn. Can you handle it?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him and took the file. "I can handle more than that."

He smiled. "Greg's going with you. He's been waiting for you in the lounge, I think, joking with Warrick and Nick."

She leaned on her cane and saluted him with the file in hand. "I'm on it," she said, and turned to find Greg.

She found him roughhousing with Nick in the lounge with Warrick playing referee. Greg wriggled out of the headlock Nick had him in and hit him playfully in the stomach when Nick stopped and looked up at Sara in the door and he turned around, winded, but with the widest grin on his face Sara had seen in weeks.

"Hey!" he said breathlessly, skipping over to her. "Where've you been, I've been ready to go _ages_ ago, and then this guy comes along—" He threw his thumb over his shoulder at Nick, who gave her a half-smile and waved. "— and tries to tell me that Timothy Dalton was the best Bond when it was _clearly_ Connery."

"Uh huh," Sara said, nodding slowly but smiling nonetheless.

His eyebrows shot up. "You ready to go?"

She smirked at his enthusiasm. "Sure," she said, happy to see him as an eager puppy dog again. She nodded down the hall. "Let's get out of here."

She clutched her cane and started off down the hall with Greg skipping at her side. "So," he began. "How've you been?"

"Pretty good," she replied. "Bored."

"You're back a little early," Greg noted. "Didn't Riza tell you—"

"I know what she told me," Sara said calmly. "She recommended I stay off the leg, and that I get back to my usual routine as fast as possible." She looked at Greg. "Didn't she tell you the same thing?"

"My injuries were a bit more extensive…" Greg's eyes trailed down her neck. "Oh, Sara…"

She stopped. "What?"

He looked away from her and rolled his eyes, suddenly awkward. "Er, it's not like I was looking, OK, but I saw something out of the corner of my eye and…"

She looked down at her chest and saw the unsightly plumb tendrils of the bruise creeping out from the neckline of her shirt. She tugged at it and turned away from Greg.

"I, um… I'll meet you in the car," she said, her back to him.

He didn't move. "It's OK," he said.

"To wear your scars on your sleeve?" she barked back at him.

His jaw snapped shut. She sighed and stopped tugging at her shirt before turning to him, noting the faded wound still visible on his neck. "I… I'm sorry, Greg," she said. "I'm acting like…"

"You're acting like me," he said with a sly smirk.

She laughed. "Yeah," she said. "I kind of am, aren't I?"

He nodded. "I get it," he said, with such sincerity that she didn't even doubt it for a moment.

"Thank God for you," she said, shaking her head in awe.

His eyes darted left, then right before he stepped towards her. "You know, I may not have a bruise, like you do. But I know what it's like to be marked. You're not a victim, Sara, you're a survivor."

"Is that how you think of it?" she asked.

"It's how I've come to think of it, yeah," Greg said. "And eventually… you'll see it that way too. Everyone else already does."

She blushed and looked away, tugging at the neckline of her shirt. "I… I have to go."

"It's a badge of courage not a—"

"Now you've just crossed the line from cute to cheesy," Sara said quickly and he laughed as he rolled his eyes. "I'll just be a minute. Please?"

He nodded, slowly. "OK," he said.

She headed immediately to the bathroom and once again found herself face to face with herself. The scar that traversed her left cheek was bad enough, but bearable because the nature of that attack wasn't so personal. She looked like a battered spouse and the idea drove her insane. So she leaned her cane against the wall, opened her purse and dug through it until she found the concealer and pulled her shirt aside, painting a nice, beige coat over the unsightly bruise. It became almost obsessive as she couldn't seem to make it go away completely, and she scrubbed at it with the tissue, Lady Macbeth in all her bloody glory.

And then the door opened, and Sara stopped, as if she was doing something immoral. The bottle of concealer fell to the tile with a crash and spilled onto the floor. She looked up at the newcomer with guilty, terrified eyes.

Catherine said nothing, but simply met Sara's gaze, her lips straight and her eyes soft. She approached Sara slowly and took some paper towels from the dispenser before crouching to clean up the mess her friend had made.

"You don't have to do that," Sara said at last.

Catherine looked up at her and smiled. She lifted the bottle of concealer and wiped it down before handing it to Sara again. "It's salvageable," she said. "You still have a lot left in there. But you won't have any left if you keep piling it on like you're doing." She straightened up and put a gentle hand on Sara's forearm, who looked down at where her colleague was touching her before looking up into her kind blue eyes.

"I just don't…" She rolled her eyes and turned away from Catherine, gripping the sink with her hands as she stared at herself in the mirror. "I should have worn the turtleneck."

"You were brave to wear this," Catherine told her, watching Sara in the mirror as well.

"If I was so brave to wear it, why does it bother me so much?"

"That's what bravery is," Catherine replied. "You should know that."

Sara sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "I just didn't… _want_ him to still have any control over me. I didn't want him to dictate what I wear, or how I act."

Catherine nodded. "Well look at Greg," she said.

Sara turned her head to give Catherine a quizzical look. "Greg?"

Catherine smiled. "Isn't he the best inspiration?" she asked. "I've never seen him so happy."

"You don't know if it's real," Sara pointed out, and Catherine's face fell.

"It seems real enough for him," she replied.

Sara shook her head. "He says it gets better…"

"It does."

Sara looked up at Catherine again and this time, a smile overtook her face as well. "Right," she said. "It's not like you're new to this sort of thing either, are you?"

Catherine reached out and took Sara's hand in hers. "Bruises fade," she said. "Scars heal."

"Life goes on," Sara said flatly.

"Yeah," Catherine returned. "Life goes on."

The blonde CSI turned to leave and just reached the door when Sara called after her. "How did you know?" she called. "About Greg, I mean."

Catherine turned to her. "Warrick told me," she said.

"How did Warrick know?" Sara asked.

"Warrick's smart," Catherine replied. "Sometimes, smarter than the rest of us. Nick didn't want to speculate because he was afraid of what he'd find. Me, I speculated like crazy, always avoiding the only thing that made sense because…" She closed her eyes and sighed. "Because it was _Greg_. And you can convince yourself of anything if you have to. But when Warrick said it, when he suggested it, I…" As if she was suddenly cold, Catherine began to rub her arms and look up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. "I couldn't avoid it anymore. Not for long. And then, there was you…"

"And then there was me," Sara repeated after Catherine trailed off.

Catherine looked at Sara, her blue eyes sparkling in the harsh florescent light of the bathroom. "You'll see," she said. "Soon, we'll be OK again."

Sara was aware of what Catherine must have been going through. "There was nothing you could have done—"

"I would have liked to have been trusted in the first place," Catherine interrupted. "I could have worked the case—"

"No better than Grissom and I could have," Sara returned.

Catherine looked down and sighed. "You're right," she said.

"I'm sorry…" Sara began, "if we hurt you…"

Catherine laughed and tossed her hair back. "You didn't hurt me," she said. "Schwartz did."

"I guess in a way, he got all of us, didn't he?" Sara asked.

Catherine didn't reply. "I have to go," she said. And before Sara could stop her, she was out the door.

After she left, Sara looked at her reflection in the mirror again for a long time.

* * *

The door opened and closed and Greg looked over at Sara, his hands on the wheel. She didn't say a word, she simply stared out of the windshield, her chest rising and falling steadily as she breathed.

"Did you fix it?" he asked.

"No," she said loudly, turning to look at him and smiling.

He was visibly confused. "But I thought you wanted to…"

"We all have our scars," she said. "And they heal. Life goes on. Now drive."

He grinned and nodded before turning the key in the ignition. "Let's get to work."


End file.
